Corrupting the Incorruptible
by Reveria
Summary: Set 4 years before the movie  my take on Errol Partridge's cessation of his dose
1. Chapter 1

**1**

It was early morning in Libria. 

The sun hadn't risen yet when the vast city-state gradually began to come alive again to face yet another day. As lamps were switched on in countless households all across the endless metropolis, the nightly blackness of the extensive conurbation slowly turned into a sparkling ocean of lights. 

Double-checking her briefcase to make sure she had everything she needed for the day, Grace Partridge exited her bedroom and made her way downstairs to the dining area for a quick breakfast. She was late; her alarm had gone off on time, but she'd been so tired that she hadn't woken up right away. Brushing some lint off her black coat as she walked past the bathroom, she briefly checked her appearance in the mirror to make sure her blonde locks were safely contained in the strict bun worn by all working women who had long hair. Satisfied, she moved on.

A quick cup of coffee and a slice of toast later, she left the kitchen and proceeded to the living-room, where her mother was getting ready to leave the house. Approaching the dining table where her father was sat reading the paper, she pulled a file and a pen out of her briefcase.

"Could you please sign this?"

Looking up from his morning issue of _Emancipia_, Errol Partridge gave his daughter a questioning glance. "What's that?"

"My political theories assignment," Grace replied as she slid the plain white cardboard folder across the table so the Cleric could reach it. "It's a lawful requirement of the College that underage students notify their guardian or parent of their progress."

"I see." 

Putting the newspaper aside, Partridge took and opened the file, speed-reading through the first paragraphs of the essay for a couple of moments before he turned his attention to the professor's comments sheet at the back.

'_This is a satisfactory piece of work from Grace, who has previously struggled with logic-related topics,' _it said._ 'While she still needs to improve the significance and accuracy of her arguments, it is obvious how much time and effort she has put into this project, and I am pleased about that.'_

"You have improved," he stated matter-of-factly as he added his signature at the bottom. "But you still need to work harder. This is not enough."

"I know. I will." Grace nodded her head as she reclaimed the folder and pen, and put them back in her briefcase. Looking at her watch, she subsequently spun around on her heel. It was high time to go. "Are you coming, Helen?"

Her mother merely nodded laconically as she gathered her belongings. 

"Goodbye Errol."

There was no emotion whatsoever in Helen Partridge's voice as she spoke the words. It was simply a pro forma farewell, and her husband's reply was equally flat. Then the door fell shut behind the two women as they headed for the elevator, leaving the apartment block shortly after.

**2**

The multitude of commuters stood and waited patiently behind the yellow lines of platform one as the seven o'clock train from Outer Libria to the City entered the station. Once it had come to a halt and when the doors slid open, hundreds of Librians simultaneously boarded the vehicle. It was morning rush hour; there was not a single working citizen left who wasn't on the move at this time of the day.

Grace struggled to keep her eyes open as she stepped over the gap and got on the train. Spotting the two women in their Administrator uniforms, two lower-class khaki coats immediately vacated their seats. Sitting down next to her mother, Grace gingerly chewed on the inside of her cheek to force an impending yawn back down her throat. She was so tired that she momentarily wondered how she was supposed to muster up enough energy to get through the long day that lay ahead. 

Her first semester at the College of Administration had started only a month ago, and even though most of the classes she had attended so far were still considered part of 'orientation', the workload that she was going to have to put up with for the next four years was already very real. She couldn't remember the last night she'd slept for more than four consecutive hours, but she had no troubles at all reciting the full list of books she'd read, the string of assignments given, and those that were still to come. 

'_Deal with it,' _she rigorously lectured herself just a moment later_. 'You are very fortunate to be given the opportunity to attend the College.'_

Only graduates of the College of Administration were to become Administrators, the crucial assistants to Libria's Clerics, and only a handful of exceptionally capable women had ever been admitted. She knew that the Department for Education and Employment chose certain people for specific careers for a reason. If she were considered inadequate, she wouldn't be there. It was the first of many challenges, and only the very best students would succeed at meeting the high standards of the Tetragrammaton.

Looking over at Helen, Grace straightened up. One day she, too, wanted to be Head of Administration. However, the only way to get there was to be better than the rest. Just like her husband, Helen Partridge had worked harder than anyone else to earn her primary position in Libria's hierarchy. Despite the fact that her father had been a member of the Second Concilliary of the Tetragrammaton, she hadn't automatically been considered suitable to handle responsibility. Outstanding efficiency and always being two steps ahead of the competition had gotten her there eventually. The constant pressure of always having to prove herself to her superiors and colleagues in a nearly all-male elite had left the petite female with frequent grey strands in her blonde hair at only thirty-seven years of age. She had made it, but the amount of time and the effort she'd had to put in were a constant reminder for Grace that being born into a prestigious family was not even nearly enough. 

"I will be home late today," she told Helen as the train advanced towards the grand tunnel that led to Central Station. "I need to go to Freedom Reading Room to do research on my religious studies paper, and I won't have time to do that until after my scheduled evening session at the Hall of Exertion."

"Do you have sufficient identification on you?" 

"Of course." 

During her first week at College, Grace had been stopped and nearly arrested by a sweeper team on her way home from the library after nightfall. Due to increased Resistance activity, a curfew had been enforced that forbade Librians to be outside after dark unless they were authorised otherwise. She'd been aware of that, but it was only when half a dozen guns were pointed at her head that she'd realised she'd left her Inner City All Access pass at home on her desk. Lucky for her, the captain knew her father and had recognised her, and her status as first class citizen and offspring of Libria's highest ranking Cleric had saved her then. But it had been an entirely unnecessary incident, and she wasn't going to let that happen again. Minor slip-ups like this were enough to jeopardise her career. 

"Same time as – "

She was about to ask her mother whether they would meet for lunch, as usual, when a sudden deafening noise abruptly cut her off, and only a split second later a forceful blast wave catapulted her out of her seat. With the back of her head harshly colliding with the metal wall of the train, she barely felt anything when she slumped face down to the floor. Groaning inwardly, her eyes fluttered shut as she slipped out of consciousness. 

**3**

The rebels did not have a chance.

It was just after sunrise when a convoy of vans pulled up on the square in front of a run-down warehouse and two elite sweeper teams kicked in the main entrance door. With their guns cocked and loaded, the soldiers spread out swiftly inside the building, raiding the empty storage rooms on the ground floor within seconds before moving on to the first storey. By the time the tired, caught-off-guard group of sense offenders were awake enough to stagger onto their feet, they were cornered. Staccato gunfire put a quick, merciless end to their existence before the men had even reached for their weapons.

Outside, a small white car pulled up just as the first rays of the morning sun reached the Nethers. Looking around briefly as they got out, two Clerics emerged from the vehicle. The older one was dressed in the black coat that unmistakably identified a Grammaton Cleric First Class. His younger partner wore a grey uniform. Together they approached the sweeper captain, who was waiting for them at the door. 

"Offenders exterminated," the superintendent reported tonelessly as he saluted. "Illegal items located on the second floor. Evidentiary team's ready."

Partridge nodded simply before stepping inside. The sound of his heavy footsteps echoed throughout the empty building as he slowly made his way down the main corridor. Knocking on the walls ever so often to check for hollow spots, he stopped whenever he passed a doorway to take a look at the respective room on the other side. Preston was close behind him, also automatically scanning his surroundings for possible hideouts.

"Nothing down here," the older Cleric concluded when they got to the staircase. 

Nodding his head in agreement, Preston followed him up to the second storey. They came to a halt in the doorway of the first room on their right-hand side, which was crammed with EC-10 rated material of all kinds. There was an extensive shelf that struggled to hold nearly twice as many books as it had been designed to. Boxes of what Partridge identified as "children's toys" were piled up in the corner, just behind half a dozen containers of apparently random photographs. Candles, crayons, colourful masks, miniature statues and other clutter littered the floor, and a stack of framed paintings was put up against the wall opposite the southward facing window.

Partridge stopped for a moment, staring down at the one on top. It showed a skinny, sexless figure on a pier set against a flaming red sky, its face distorted as it appeared to be screaming in terror. Not even knowing why, he frowned softly for the briefest moment, then turned around to face Preston.

"Get the evidentiary team in here to collect those items," he told his partner, who went to do as he'd just been told, before he himself proceeded to the adjacent room. There the bodies of the dead offenders were piled up in the corner, in a puddle of blood. 

Slowly walking towards them to take a closer look, Partridge realised that they were all very young; two boys who had barely finished their teenage years, a woman perhaps in her mid-twenties, and three other men of about thirty years of age. All of them could have had a bright future in Libria, but instead they had turned against their own salvation, had turned against Father. It just made no sense to him at all.

Finding the remaining rooms empty except for a provisional living room with furniture made up of wooden boxes, and several old mattresses on the floor in an attempt to create some kind of bedroom, he returned downstairs, meeting Preston at the door just when he was about to send an additional team of chemists in.

"What's going on?" Partridge demanded.

"I found it quite strange that the entire ground floor apparently hadn't been used, so I double-checked the downstairs storage rooms," Preston explained. "There are traces of some kind of … powder that I'm curious about."

He beckoned his partner to follow him, leading him back into the room at the end of the corridor. Squatting down close to the dirty, shattered window, he ran his gloved palm a few inches along the ground, then held it up so Partridge could see it. Most of the particles that had come to stick on the black leather were just ordinary dust and dirt, but there were a few white crystalline ones in-between that didn't quite seem to belong. 

"Good work," Partridge acknowledged as he got back up. He knew very well that his young apprentice was very intuitive. It wasn't the first time that his instincts had led him to discover something that even an experienced Cleric such as himself might have overlooked because it'd slip through the patterns they'd been taught. His mind just did not work that way. "Perhaps that will explain why there are only six offenders." 

"Six?" Preston was surprised. "Intelligence estimated there'd be at least two dozen barricaded in this building."

"They also assumed they'd be fully armed," the older Cleric replied. "But there are only six of them, and all they have is a few old Kalashnikovs."

Shaking his head, Preston followed his mentor back outside. "This is odd. Intelligence is _never_ that severely mistaken."

"I know."

Heading back to the car, Partridge pulled out a metal folder of paperwork to be done immediately on location. Flipping it open, he found a pen and began to run through the forms, his mind still working hard trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

"What if we're too late?" Preston suddenly said. 

Partridge looked up. "I beg your pardon?"

"What if intelligence was right, but the sweeper teams did not get here in time?" the young Cleric wondered. "Or maybe they were somehow warned. Part of the group may have gotten away."

Nodding slowly, his partner paused the paperwork for a moment. "That is possible. Unlikely, but possible."

Partridge was concerned about the large quantity of weapons that wasn't there. Considering the facts they had – not even half of the expected offenders, and a mysterious white powder in one of the storage rooms – he couldn't help but thinking that something had gone terribly wrong.

The question was just what, where, and when. 

**4**

When she woke up again, Grace couldn't tell for how long she'd been unconscious, or that she'd passed out in the first place. But the moment she opened her eyes, she instantly wished she hadn't regained consciousness all that quickly. 

Thick black smoke was everywhere, causing her vision to blur as tears flooded her eyes and started to run down her face in an attempt of her body to ease the horrible sting. Then she drew her first breath, only to break into a coughing fit that seemed to break her chest. 

She did not move at first. Too delirious to grasp the actual situation, she closed her eyes again, wanting to convince herself that whatever had happened, whatever was going on couldn't be real. This was Libria. There was no violence, no assaults, no suffering! But then her air supply was suddenly cut off when a boot crashed into her stomach as someone tripped over her, literally kicking her into action. 

Her eyes fluttered open again with some difficulty. Wiping the tears and dirt away with the back of her hand, her vision cleared just enough to give her a vague impression of the destruction that was all around. Her body failed to obey her at first when she tried to roll over and sit up, but willpower eventually triumphed over her shaky arms and she propped herself up on her elbows.

It took her a while to realise that the train was gone. Not that it had miraculously disappeared. Instead, it had been completely torn apart. What was left of the first three or so compartments was spread out along the tracks in bits and pieces of different sizes, as though a giant had crushed the vehicle by stepping on it, and afterwards kicked it around until it fell apart. Some of the larger remains were burning furiously. The rear compartments were mostly still intact, but the powerful blast had thrown them off the tracks, crashing them into the pillars of powerlines and parked trains nearby.

Staggering to her feet, Grace took off her black coat and held it in front of her nose and mouth to filter the poisoned air. 

Still coughing and rubbing her eyes as she walked away from the burning train wreck, she tried to figure out where she was. It seemed impossible to tell at first because the surrounding area was a complete mess, devastated by the explosion. Then she spotted the opening of the grand tunnel in the near distance and realised they had to be just outside Central Station.

'_What in Father's name happened?'_

Gradually, her mind shook off its temporary state of inertia, and her senses slowly began functioning again. It was only then that she fully registered other survivors stumbling about as helplessly and confused as herself. The sudden onslaught of images, smells and sounds was brutal, and she struggled to keep her balance as dizziness took a hold of her. Groans and shrieks of pain echoed in her ear, and the sickening smell of burned flesh penetrated her respiratory system. Gasping for breath in-between coughs, she ventured on, trying to get away from the disaster zone.

However, Grace had only taken a few steps when she stopped in her tracks. She hadn't boarded the train by herself. Someone was missing.

'_Helen.'_

Turning around, she soldiered back to where she'd regained consciousness, trying to find her mother. She'd been through enough fire alarm drills to know that smoke inhalation, not burn injuries, was the true danger and cause of death in most fire-related incidents. What if Helen was unconscious and unable to head for a safer spot? It would be considered her fault if the Head of Administration had survived the attack itself, but died of carbon monoxide intake afterwards. 

"Helen, can you hear me?" she yelled as she looked around, but her words had barely left her mouth when they faded into the same unidentifiable noise as everything else. 

"Helen! Answer me if you can hear me!"

But there was no answer, and in the chaos that surrounded her, wanting to find anything specific at all seemed like madness. Still, Grace searched the wreck for what felt like forever, turning over bodies of both injured and dead passengers, but Helen Partridge was nowhere to be seen. Finally, she gave up. 

Slumping to the ground, she leaned back against the cabin of a semi-intact compartment further away. It had taken her body a while to process the impact of the attack, but when the shock eventually began to taper off, pain quickly took its place. The bloody scratches and deep cuts all over her body were burning cruelly, her heartbeat resounded in her pounding head, and the agony she felt when she put even the slightest pressure on her rib cage was torture. Groaning, whimpering and crying silently, she shifted her weight until the pain became somewhat bearable, then her eyes fluttered shut. 

Not long after, she passed out again from exhaustion. 

**5**

"When did all this happen?"

"The first bomb detonated at 7:11am, just as the train approached Central Station. There were two subsequent explosions at 7:13am and 7:14am, when the wreck had already come to a halt. We assume the station was the real target, but the train was three minutes delayed because of a defect signal."

"How many citizens are affected?"

"We don't know yet, Sir. The Railway Control Tower immediately contacted nearby sweeper teams; they're clearing the area now. Backup is on the way. I have also requested all available medical staff to be sent in. I assumed that would be the right thing to do."

"Of course. I will contact the monastery and send all available Clerics to secure the area. Do you think it is necessary we shut the City down for the day?"

"Unquestionably."

"Fine. Keep me updated on everything."

DuPont waited until the Head of Intelligence had left his office before he picked up the phone. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he dialled the shortcut number to the Head of Clergy, briefing him about the situation. Once he'd passed on his orders, he pressed the conference call button, then dialled again. 

It was time for a Council meeting.

**6**

They had almost reached the dead zone between Libria and the Nethers when the beeping alarm of the radio broke the silence that had travelled with them, momentarily startling Partridge and Preston. Reaching over from the front-passenger seat, the older Cleric pressed the receiver button

"Clerics, the City will be closed down shortly due to terrorist activity," a man's voice announced. "If you need to return to the CBD at all, do so as quickly as you can. You only have one hour."

"What happened?" Partridge asked.

"Three bombs exploded on the seven o'clock train this morning. We do not yet have a definite number of casualties, but the Council and Intelligence have ordered to shut down the inner city as soon as possible to ensure maximum safety for all citizens. Over."

As he switched the radio back to standby, Partridge looked over at Preston, frowning ever so softly.

"What's the matter?" His younger partner gave him a brief questioning glance before focusing on the road again

"Helen and Grace took that train," Partridge replied. For a split second, there seemed to be something about the sound of his own voice that he didn't quite like, but it passed so soon that he forgot about it almost immediately. "I wonder if they're stranded somewhere."

"Can you contact them somehow?"

"Possibly. I'll try and message them."

Getting his communicator out of his pocket, Partridge opened his contact list and selected the appropriate two recipients. 

_WHERE ARE YOU?_

Then he pressed 'send'.

They had just passed the security checks at the southern gate when the small apparatus beeped, signalling an incoming message. It was from Grace.

_MEET ME AT EQUILIBRIUM._

**7**

"Gentlemen, I must say that this attack is very convenient."

DuPont smiled diabolically as he looked at his eleven fellow council members. There was no doubt that the bombing had caused extensive damage and devastation, had shaken Libria to its core. But at the very same time, the assault had stabilised the internal house of cards in an instant.

It had been a complete shock surprise for all of them when Father had unexpectedly died of a stroke earlier that month. His doctors had failed to explain why a healthy, middle-aged man could just drop dead without any warning, but retrospectively, that was hardly relevant. The fact of the matter was that Libria had been leaderless for three weeks. Emergency precautions such as realistic holograms for public appearances and pre-recorded television messages had been installed years ago, of course, but they were more of a short-term fix rather than a long-term solution. Ernest Goodman, as the council members had known him, had not planned to retire for a long time. 

His sudden death had left the elite in a power vacuum that threatened the integrity of the entire system should the resistance somehow catch wind of the event. It seemed impossible to imagine Libria without Father's guidance. He had created the great society the way it was; he had based his citizens' faith in the system mainly on him as a person. Libria's citizens were sedated, but nobody was truly immune to doubt. When a strong leader was taken away, nothing was the same, not even under a suitable heir. Napoleon, Alexander, Stalin, Hitler… their works and visions had crumbled all too quickly after they were gone. Without its shepherd, the herd was in jeopardy, and DuPont knew that. 

"We needed a reason to justify Father's late reclusiveness. Gentlemen, here it is. On a silver tray, if I may say so."

Acts of sabotage against Prozium factories and agricultural production units were nothing new, but never before had the aggression been targeted at Librian citizens. Nobody would doubt that now the threat of assassination was just too great to allow Father the same exposure as before. It would make perfect sense for him to appoint a deputy who'd act in accordance to his wishes. The council had already decided that Father's favourite son would carry on his paternal tradition. 

"I want a video message from Father ready within twenty-four hours," DuPont commanded. With the computer programmes that currently existed, it would be challenging, but possible, to produce totally new material. "He will express his concern about the situation, his faith in his citizens, his regret about having to retreat behind the walls of the Tetragrammaton… and he will announce my ascension to Vice-Council on Libria Day."


	2. Chapter 2

**13**

"… and subsequently, we're back at square one."

Cassius Hobbes, the Head of Intelligence, shook his head as he looked at the two Clerics who were sat to his left and right hand side respectively. He wasn't pleased. Seventeen days after the bombings, the investigation still wasn't getting anywhere. The countless hours he and his team had spent working untiringly on the case was, after all, time spent in vain, because the only result he could produce was the exact same as a fortnight ago. He knew that the Vice-Council would not want to hear that.

"It all comes down to our number one suspect," he said, looking at the file in front of him. "We know that he relied on the support and information of railway staff, but it's now clear they were only little helpers. They trusted him enough to organise whatever he needed to carry out the attack. None of them were ever in direct contact with the resistance. They have no significant information. Julian Dawes is the missing link, and he has… vanished."

There was a moment of silence as each of the men mulled over his words. The fact that a person could just disappear within the city walls of Libria was startling. While it was theoretically possible to avoid the surveillance cameras if one knew their location and in which direction they faced, _someone_ would have seen him.

"Julian Dawes…" Partridge mumbled to himself. There was a faded memory flash somewhere in the back of his mind that he couldn't quite get a hold of. "Does he have any family? My guess is someone's hiding him."

Hobbes shook his head. "The mother died in an accident when he was a small child. His father was arrested and incinerated for sense offence almost ten years ago."

"What about extended family?" Preston gave him a questioning look. "Or siblings?"

"Emigrated to Concordia anno Libriae 3," Hobbes replied with subtle contempt. Formerly known as Australia, the self-proclaimed Country of the Free had gladly welcomed the surge of Librian immigrants when Prozium had become compulsory. Eventually, the First Concilliary had closed the borders and banned emigration.

"And no," he added. "We double-checked with the Department for Health and Family Planning. He's an only child."

"Did you run a search on his parents in the citizen directory?" Preston asked as he tapped his copy of the file. He'd read the fact sheets so many times that by now he knew them by heart. And yet it had taken him until this very moment, when he wasn't twisting his mind trying to read between the lines, to notice a slight oddity. Suddenly he had an idea.

"No. Why would we do that?"

"Illegitimate children," the young Cleric answered. When both his partner and the Head of Intelligence failed to realise where he was going, he explained, "If you look at his ancestral information, you'll see that his parents got married at a rather mature age – perhaps only because the procreation laws became effective. That is uncommon. Maybe one of them already had a child."

Hobbes frowned. "Any siblings would be listed in the Department's database."

"Not if they were born before the foundation of Libria," Partridge replied thoughtfully. He knew that because he himself had been born in the aftermath of the war, and subsequently was not listed there. "They only record the births of children that were created in their laboratories. Dawes might have siblings that were born during or shortly after the War. In that case, they would be registered separately in the citizen directory."

"Of course," Hobbes mumbled to himself as he opened his notebook. Part of him hoped the Clerics were wrong. Because if they were right and he'd simply overlooked that possibility, it would be an unforgivable lapse that'd put an end to his career.

None of them spoke as his fingers flew across the keyboard.

"Nothing under his mother's name that we don't already know," he informed them when the first search came to an unsuccessful end. Then he entered the father's details, and they waited again.

"I don't believe it." Hobbes shook his head. "Robert Dawes is listed as the father of Julian Dawes, born to his wife Juliet – and as the father of someone named Jurgen Kampf, born to a woman called Gerda Kampf in 5 B.L."

"Open Kampf's profile," Partridge requested. When he saw the picture, a certain elusive memory instantly came to life again. Now he knew where he'd last seen Dawes.

He looked at Preston. "Let's go." 

**14**

Jurgen had never been a religious man in the traditional sense, but that did not mean he lacked faith in the inevitable. There'd been many a time when he'd doubted the infallible power of God, Goddess, or whichever other deity was supposed to be out there, but that did not change his fundamental belief in the utter profoundness of seemingly random actions. He believed that there was a plan for every living individual, and while sometimes there'd be a change of plans, certain things that were meant to happen would happen.

He had no other satisfactory explanation for stepping up to his window and looking out onto the street just before he was going to leave for work. He'd never done that before. There was nothing outside his window that was worth looking at. And yet, for some reason, this morning he did. An inexplicable impulse had made him cross the room and glance outside. Quite possibly, that strange urge had saved his life.

As the white Cadillac Seville and a sweeper truck pulled up on the square in front of his apartment unit, Jurgen quickly stepped back from the window and strode down the hallway, to the bathroom. There was not a shadow of a doubt in his mind that the Clerics were coming for him. He was surprised it had taken them that long to discover his relation to Julian, yet he'd secretly hoped it would go unnoticed.

He knew it would literally only take them a minute or two to reach his floor. He needed to act fast. Taking a Prozium capsule from his ampoule container – a real one this time – he stopped for a moment, clenching his fists.

_'To dose or not to dose… that is the question.'_

He couldn't even remember the last time he'd sedated himself. It must have been years and years ago. The very thought of it disgusted him, but his rational self knew very well that he did not have much of a choice unless he wanted to end up in the furnaces. He'd never faced a Cleric one on one before. Occasionally, he'd passed one in a crowd, and even then, when he hadn't been a suspect, it had made him disturbingly nervous. While he did not question his ability to successfully mask his emotions, he was aware of the fact that the instinctual bodily symptoms were much harder to control.

They were coming to search his home. They were going to interrogate him. Perhaps even take him to the Palace of Justice to run a polygraph test on him. It was going to be intense. He had no death wish. It would be madness to try and fool a Cleric.

He momentarily expected to be relieved when the amber liquid rushed along his veins, but then he shook his head at himself. He wasn't anything. He wasn't meant to be anything except calm and level-headed. Tranquil indifference was now his new state of mind.

When he heard the firm knock on the door, he waited just a moment not to give the impression he'd been anticipating it. Making his way back down the hallway, Jurgen eventually opened up to face two men dressed in menacing black.

"How may I help you?" he asked after a short pause, effortlessly faking a mildly surprised countenance. Knowing his heart rate would normally have slightly increased by now, it was strange to feel nothing at all. The discrepancy between his callous psyche and his still emotionally charged intellect was rather fascinating. The only similar experience he could think of was that of a spinal injury.

"I have a warrant to search your premises," the older Cleric informed him. No introduction was needed; Jurgen knew his name even though they'd never met before. Errol Partridge's reputation preceded him.

"I'm sure this is a misunderstanding," Jurgen said as he stepped back, letting the sweepers enter his apartment. "But do come in. I have nothing to hide."

"Excellent."

As the soldiers swarmed his apartment, Jurgen followed the two Clerics to the living-room. He sat down at the table as asked, intertwining his fingers as he rested his hands on the cool glass surface.

"Where's your brother?" Partridge asked him straight out, looking at him sternly.

"My… brother?"

"Julian Dawes. You share a parent with him. I assume you are aware that he conducted the despicable attack on our great society. So where is he?"

Jurgen shrugged slowly. "I don't know."

"You have no idea where he is?" Partridge kept at it.

"I don't. In fact, I'm not even sure when I last spoke to him."

"Perhaps we should refresh your memory then," Preston joined in, dropping a stack of pictures in front of Jurgen. They were prints of surveillance footage stills, recorded outside the Tetragrammaton Headquarters on the day before the bomb attack.

"Oh, of course." Jurgen momentarily tapped his forehead as though a forgotten triviality had just resurfaced. He'd thought that particular street corner was safe.

_'Looks like it's not.'_

At this moment, he was definitely glad to have taken the Prozium.

"What did he want?" Partridge asked, staring right into his eyes. Jurgen held the gaze just long enough not to give the impression he couldn't stand it, then looked down at the pictures again.

"Money."

"Money? What for?"

"I don't know, he wouldn't say."

The impression on the older Cleric's face made it clear he didn't believe a word.

"Did you give it to him?"

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

Again, Jurgen shrugged. "As I said, he wouldn't tell me what he needed the money for. And since I assumed he was a regular working citizen with a sufficient minimum wage to cover his living costs, I didn't think it was necessary to fulfil his request."

"So you had no idea he was a sense offender?" Partridge's eyes narrowed. "More so, you were not aware that he was plotting a terrorist attack?"

Unimpressed, Jurgen shook his head. "No, Sir. I've never taken any interest in him, or what he does. Dawes and I may have the same father, but I've never been part of the Dawes family. We hardly ever spoke."

"And you didn't think it was necessary to report the incident?"

"Why would I? I wasn't aware that requesting help was a punishable crime."

He'd barely finished his sentence when he realised he'd made a mistake. There was no undertone in his voice, and as far as he could tell his expression was neutral, but it wasn't enough to fully erase the underlying sarcasm. His eyes met Partridge's across the table, and he wondered if the Cleric had noticed it.

"Sir, no trace of EC-10 or unused Prozium. This unit is clear."

The sweeper captain interrupted them just in time, confirming the truth of Jurgen's lies to everyone present.

"I told you I have nothing to hide."

Partridge just nodded grimly as he gathered the photographs, handing them back to Preston. Jurgen sensed that for some reason he wasn't convinced, but the lack of evidence was going to save him from being arrested… at least for now.

"If you do remember something… _anything_ that could lead to your brother's arrest, come and see me," Partridge pressured him as he got up. At his signal, the sweepers exited the apartment.

Jurgen's lips twisted into an empty smile. "Certainly." 

**15**

Putting down his private copy of Virgil's Aeneid, DuPont traced the exquisitely illustrated cover as he slowly began to smile.

_'I should have thought of that years ago.'_

**16**

"Mary… look."

Jurgen sighed inwardly as he looked up from the maps that were spread out on the table in front of him. He'd been busy updating both the reported activity of disobedient dissident groups in the Nethers and recent Tetragrammaton raids when Mary had come in, telling him something about a girl she'd encountered at work the day before who apparently was a potential sense offender.

"Maybe she's off the dose, maybe she isn't," he shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I've got other things to worry about at the moment."

"Like what?"

"Like two senior Clerics who knocked on my door this morning."

Mary looked at him, incredulous. "They _knocked_? You mean your front door is actually still intact?"

Jurgen snorted irritably, rolling his eyes. "You don't get it, do you?"

Putting down the pen he'd been holding, he looked right at her. "This is _not_ the time to take _anything_ lightly. Perhaps you don't feel the rope tightening around your neck yet, but I do. And it radically put my priorities in order. Do you know what my top priority is? My people. Everyone here who has put their trust in me. If I make a mistake, they die. All of them. I'm not going to jeopardise their safety. So whatever it is with that girl, I don't care. We're not the Salvation Army, Mary. We can't afford to rescue random newcomers."

"Is that so?"

The knowing smirk on her lips caused him to frown. He didn't particularly like her teasing tone of voice either.

"What if I told you that her name is Grace Partridge?" Mary smiled triumphantly as she sat down on the edge of the desk, folding her arms.

"Partridge?" Suddenly Jurgen was all ears.

"Yes. As in, the Cleric kid."

"I'm listening."

"She's a student at the College of Administration. Shepherd happens to be her professor. Anyway, if she's not off the dose already, she will be pretty soon."

Jurgen did a mental double take to make sure he'd heard her correctly. Not only was this opportunity very unexpected, it almost seemed too good to be true. If Mary's instincts were right and the daughter of Libria's highest-ranking Cleric was feeling, the possibilities for the resistance were amazing. However, her last sentence alarmed him.

"What's that supposed to mean? You didn't…?"

"Give her fakes? I sure did. That's what we've got 'em for, right?"

Their eyes met across the table. Mary O'Brien wasn't the kind of woman to be easily intimidated, but this time she was the first one to look away.

"What?" she asked defiantly.

"The placebos are for our personal use, in case we have to dose while in public," Jurgen said, dangerously quiet. He wasn't the type who'd yell, but that didn't mean one couldn't tell when he was upset. "You know that. What's gotten into everyone lately? Does anyone here even listen to a word I say? Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I've taken a chance, that's what I've done!" Mary retorted stubbornly. "Yes, I've taken a risk. I'm aware of that. But there's no way we're getting anywhere without putting ourselves out on the line one way or another. At least let it be a calculated danger. We need to be proactive!"

Jurgen took a deep breath. Holding it for a moment, he eventually released it again, together with his irritation. She did have a point, he had to give her that. Having lost the brief and fickle sympathy of Father, their only shot at winning this war was to gain supporters in important positions. Nobody ever said that infiltrating the elite was going to be easy. There'd always be something at stake.

Despite his bad mood, a small hopeful smile conquered his lips.

"Let's keep a very close eye on her.' 

**17**

Viviana let out a soft sigh as she dropped a heavy box of EC-10 rated books on a small metal table in one of the storage rooms. Rubbing her burning palms together for a few moments to ease the discomfort, she eventually continued with her work. One by one she took the volumes out of the container and put them in their respective places on the shelves.

There were thousands of items locked away in the vaults of the evidentiary department, an extensive forbidden library waiting to burn. Viviana paused for a moment and reverently traced the beautifully illustrated cover of a copy of Shakespeare's Complete Works.

_'Such a shame,_' she thought sadly as she leafed through the pages. Sometimes her workplace felt like a morgue.

"Officer Preston?"

The book almost slipped through her hands when her supervisor's intercom call startled her, but she managed to compose herself quickly enough to prevent it. Allowing herself a second to breathe, she pressed the reply button.

"Yes?" she answered in same flat tone of voice as everybody else.

"I need you to come up."

Putting Shakespeare where he belonged, Viviana exited the storage rooms and went upstairs to the office area. She instantly noticed a cardboard container crammed with old paperback books on her desk. Among them were John Locke's 'Two Treatises of Government' and Machiavelli's 'The Prince'.

"Professor Shepherd has requested these for guided viewing. I need you to deliver them to the College straight away."

"Certainly."

The box was heavy, but Viviana refused to let that show as she left the evidentiary department behind and went on her way. Being a vital part of the Tetragrammaton, the college campus was located in the very centre of the administrative district, right next to the monastery. The fastest way to get there was to simply cross Freedom Plaza, but when she looked outside and saw that it was pouring down, she decided to take a detour instead. Pulling out her swipe card, she opened the sliding doors at the end of the corridor and descended into the underground.

The vast net of secret corridors and hidden passageways that supposedly existed underneath the surface of the city were both the worst and the best-kept secret in Libria. Most citizens knew about them, but due to the fact that only a fraction had ever been discovered, nobody could seriously estimate the full extension of 'the labyrinth'.

It was assumed that the tunnels were leftovers of old bunkers on whose ruins Libria had been built. When the bombs had finally stopped falling from the sky, all focus had been on damage control and reconstruction. It wasn't until demolition workers in Outer Libria accidentally discovered a hidden access point that the Council became aware of them.

An intense investigation that had lasted almost five years had uncovered the passage that now conveniently connected the evidentiary department with the Tetragrammaton Headquarters, the monastery and the College, as well as some minor tunnels elsewhere in the city. However, due to various complications – the lack of pre-war city maps marking the exact locations of the bunkers, and the fact that entire suburbs would have to be evacuated and possibly demolished to access what lay beneath – the operation had soon become more of a guessing game than a systematic search. Even though many experts estimated that the majority of the network remained undiscovered, the costly mission was eventually aborted. Viviana was quite sure that the tunnels were the one important reason why the Council had yet failed to locate and eradicate the resistance.

Resurfacing on campus, Viviana had no problems finding the right classroom. She delivered the books without wasting even a second, then left as quickly as she could without causing suspicion. She couldn't stand the young academics. While the average citizen was merely insensitive, the up and coming elite seemed particularly callous. Naturally, they had to be in order to carry on the ruthless doings of the Tetragrammaton. Except for the lack of combat skills, the young men and woman of the College had the same chilling aura about them as the aspiring Clerics.

Running through her mental checklist of chores to be done when she'd get home from work, Viviana pushed open the door of one of the female bathrooms on her way back. It wasn't until she heard a horrified gasp that she snapped out of her momentary trance and registered that she wasn't alone.

A blonde teenage girl dressed in an Administrator uniform was half sitting, half lying on the floor in front of her, shaking like a tiny leaf hurled about in a violent storm. Around her, the contents of her briefcase littered the sterile white tiles, supposedly having been tossed aside carelessly in a frantic search for something inside the bag. That something appeared to be the PIU the girl was clutching desperately, as though it was a life jacket that would save her from going under. Viviana also spotted various empty Prozium capsules among the mess. It took her a moment to order and process the onslaught of information. When it dawned on her what was going on, her eyes widened a little.

Squatting down as she took a closer look at the girl's terrified, tear-stained face, Viviana realised she looked somewhat familiar. After a moment or two, recognition set in. She'd last seen Errol Partridge's daughter at around the time when the senior Cleric had been assigned as her husband's mentor. Back then, she must have been about twelve. Nearly six years later, she'd obviously grown up, but the similarities were still there.

"Shhh… hey. It's okay. You're Grace, right?"

Viviana's voice was soft as she reached out. Grace flinched at the initial touch of her hand, then relaxed to some extent. Whether she was actually comfortable or just exhausted wasn't clear, but it didn't matter all that much.

"Are you going to report me?" The fearful undertone in her voice almost broke Viviana's heart.

"No, no. I'm on your side."

She smiled gently as she sat down next to her. Her mother instincts were boiling over. Regardless of her age, this girl needed to be held, rocked and calmed. However, she wasn't sure whether it was a wise idea right at that moment, and so she settled for a hand on the shoulder.

"What happened?' she asked.

Grace let out a sigh, struggling to hold back a sob. Covering her face with her quivering hands, she ran her fingers along her hair, brushing a few strands that had come undone back behind her ear.

"I… I've been feeling… strange for the last few days… I've been _feeling_… I've been taking my intervals, but… but… there's something wrong with them. At first… I thought maybe it's the headaches… but I've hardly had any for a while…"

Looking down at her PIU, she opened the placeholder lid and took out the last remaining capsule. Holding it between her thumb and index finger, she shook her head.

"Whatever this is… it's not Prozium. I've had… _emotional reactions_… to situations. It wasn't so bad at first… I didn't even realise… it was more like… a diffuse kind of vertigo. I kept telling myself I couldn't possibly be feeling, and it worked for a while. But… it's been getting worse. This morning…"

Her eyes fluttered shut as tears snuck up to her again. Rigorously wiping them away with the back of her hand before they could fall, she let out a shaky breath.

"I was on my way to class when one of the acolytes pointed at someone in the crowd," she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself like a fragile shield. "This girl… she was my age. She fought back… so the sweepers… they… they shot her. Right there on the street."

Swallowing hard, she added, "And nobody even flinched… except me."

She knew she'd been incredibly lucky to have gone unnoticed, but that did not make her feel any better. This time, Grace lost the battle. Running down her cheeks in a thin, steady flow, the tears burned her skin as though they were pure hydrochloric acid. She whimpered softly as she rocked back and forth, her petite body shaking with each sob.

Viviana hesitated but a second before pulling the girl to her. She half-expected resistance, but Grace didn't fight her. Stiffening for only a moment, she soon rested her head against Viviana's shoulder as she cried silently. Not knowing what to do with her arms at first, she eventually wrapped them around the other woman. Clinging to her as though she was never going to let go again, Grace crumbled. As helpless fear, mixed up with shock and sheer compassion for the victim, overtook her, her mind descended into chaos. Her whole body became heavy and rigid as a paralysing coldness crept along her veins, overtaking every little fibre of her body and causing her blood to freeze. Her heart rapidly turned into a giant lump of ice. The tiny hairs on her neck rose swiftly when a frosty shiver shot down her spine. Within moments, her once exceptionally stable psyche became one big, suffocating blur. She was a panting, trembling mess, drenched in cold sweat.

Yet slowly, she became increasingly aware of that other human body that was so close to hers. It was soft, and it exuded an incredible warmth that was amazingly contagious. Once that warmth had found a safe landing spot, it began to spread inside her, fighting back the coldness that had gripped her earlier. As her heart anxiously started pounding again, the sound of a much more steady heartbeat eventually tamed her own. As they fell in synch with one another, an unbelievable calmness filled her. Gradually, her mind resurfaced from the ocean of overpowering emotions, shyly reordering itself.

"I know it feels as though you're drowning," Viviana said softly as she stroked the girl's back. "But it'll pass. With time, you'll learn how to live with your feelings… how to be in control of them."

Grace sighed deeply as she pulled back, drying her eyes.

"I'm not sure I want this," she whispered, glancing at the capsule she'd been holding on to all the while. It wasn't too late to go to the nearest Equilibrium centre and simply replace her intervals. Oblivion was only an injection away…

"Sweetheart…"

Touching the side of her face, Viviana made her turn her head and face her.

"Emotion is what life is all about. It's the purpose of everything you do. Without love, without anger, without sorrow, you're walking but a straight line from cradle to grave. And what's the point of this life if it's nothing more than a transition from non-existence back to nothingness? Only the dead feel nothing at all."

When the face of the old woman flashed before her eyes, Grace swallowed again.

"But… what about war?" she insisted. "What about murder? What about rape? What about all the everyday cruelties that have ceased to exist? You speak of emotion as though there is no downside to it."

"There is a downside to it, you're right," Viviana replied patiently. "But it's about choice. It's about control. Libria's language and thinking is riddled with this myth of passivity. Two people 'fall' in love like falling into a tiger trap. You're 'plagued' by remorse as if by mosquitos. Anger is said to 'strike' like lightning. Someone would be 'felled' by shame like a tree by an axe, and 'haunted' by guilt as if by a ghost. We've used those metaphors so often, they've come to sound perfectly natural. But they're not. To believe that emotion is some kind of fatal disease of which you inevitably become a helpless victim, to think of it as a slave master of the mind is to discredit the power your intellect as a whole."

She paused for a moment, giving Grace some time to let those thoughts sink in.

"I would be lying if I denied that one evil person can easily harm a hundred peaceful people," she continued in a soft, but firm voice. "But that does not mean that this person is right, or that one flawed point of view, one failure, is ever grave enough to question and overrule the existence of emotion. Millions of innocent people have died by a bullet, and yet it's not the gun that killed them. It's always the person who does, or doesn't, pull the trigger."

Grace was about to point out that taking the gun away would easily solve the problem when she realised that there'd still be plenty of other ways to kill a man. It wasn't a particularly comforting analogy, but she understood what Viviana was trying to say. Treating the symptoms did not solve the actual problem. Still, the thought of putting herself on the line like this was unspeakably daunting.

"What if I can't do it?" Her fearful eyes met Viviana's. "I don't think I'm strong enough."

She gave the girl's hand a gentle squeeze. "Trust me. You are."

Grace sighed deeply. Biting her lip, the inhaled deeply before releasing the air again slowly. "Will you help me?"

Viviana smiled softly. "Of course." 


	3. Chapter 3

**13**

"… and subsequently, we're back at square one."

Cassius Hobbes, the Head of Intelligence, shook his head as he looked at the two Clerics who were sat to his left and right hand side respectively. He wasn't pleased. Seventeen days after the bombings, the investigation still wasn't getting anywhere. The countless hours he and his team had spent working untiringly on the case was, after all, time spent in vain, because the only result he could produce was the exact same as a fortnight ago. He knew that the Vice-Council would not want to hear that.

"It all comes down to our number one suspect," he said, looking at the file in front of him. "We know that he relied on the support and information of railway staff, but it's now clear they were only little helpers. They trusted him enough to organise whatever he needed to carry out the attack. None of them were ever in direct contact with the resistance. They have no significant information. Julian Dawes is the missing link, and he has… vanished."

There was a moment of silence as each of the men mulled over his words. The fact that a person could just disappear within the city walls of Libria was startling. While it was theoretically possible to avoid the surveillance cameras if one knew their location and in which direction they faced, _someone_ would have seen him.

"Julian Dawes…" Partridge mumbled to himself. There was a faded memory flash somewhere in the back of his mind that he couldn't quite get a hold of. "Does he have any family? My guess is someone's hiding him."

Hobbes shook his head. "The mother died in an accident when he was a small child. His father was arrested and incinerated for sense offence almost ten years ago."

"What about extended family?" Preston gave him a questioning look. "Or siblings?"

"Emigrated to Concordia anno Libriae 3," Hobbes replied with subtle contempt. Formerly known as Australia, the self-proclaimed Country of the Free had gladly welcomed the surge of Librian immigrants when Prozium had become compulsory. Eventually, the First Concilliary had closed the borders and banned emigration.

"And no," he added. "We double-checked with the Department for Health and Family Planning. He's an only child."

"Did you run a search on his parents in the citizen directory?" Preston asked as he tapped his copy of the file. He'd read the fact sheets so many times that by now he knew them by heart. And yet it had taken him until this very moment, when he wasn't twisting his mind trying to read between the lines, to notice a slight oddity. Suddenly he had an idea.

"No. Why would we do that?"

"Illegitimate children," the young Cleric answered. When both his partner and the Head of Intelligence failed to realise where he was going, he explained, "If you look at his ancestral information, you'll see that his parents got married at a rather mature age – perhaps only because the procreation laws became effective. That is uncommon. Maybe one of them already had a child."

Hobbes frowned. "Any siblings would be listed in the Department's database."

"Not if they were born before the foundation of Libria," Partridge replied thoughtfully. He knew that because he himself had been born in the aftermath of the war, and subsequently was not listed there. "They only record the births of children that were created in their laboratories. Dawes might have siblings that were born during or shortly after the War. In that case, they would be registered separately in the citizen directory."

"Of course," Hobbes mumbled to himself as he opened his notebook. Part of him hoped the Clerics were wrong. Because if they were right and he'd simply overlooked that possibility, it would be an unforgivable lapse that'd put an end to his career.

None of them spoke as his fingers flew across the keyboard.

"Nothing under his mother's name that we don't already know," he informed them when the first search came to an unsuccessful end. Then he entered the father's details, and they waited again.

"I don't believe it." Hobbes shook his head. "Robert Dawes is listed as the father of Julian Dawes, born to his wife Juliet – and as the father of someone named Jurgen Kampf, born to a woman called Gerda Kampf in 5 B.L."

"Open Kampf's profile," Partridge requested. When he saw the picture, a certain elusive memory instantly came to life again. Now he knew where he'd last seen Dawes.

He looked at Preston. "Let's go." 

**14**

Jurgen had never been a religious man in the traditional sense, but that did not mean he lacked faith in the inevitable. There'd been many a time when he'd doubted the infallible power of God, Goddess, or whichever other deity was supposed to be out there, but that did not change his fundamental belief in the utter profoundness of seemingly random actions. He believed that there was a plan for every living individual, and while sometimes there'd be a change of plans, certain things that were meant to happen would happen.

He had no other satisfactory explanation for stepping up to his window and looking out onto the street just before he was going to leave for work. He'd never done that before. There was nothing outside his window that was worth looking at. And yet, for some reason, this morning he did. An inexplicable impulse had made him cross the room and glance outside. Quite possibly, that strange urge had saved his life.

As the white Cadillac Seville and a sweeper truck pulled up on the square in front of his apartment unit, Jurgen quickly stepped back from the window and strode down the hallway, to the bathroom. There was not a shadow of a doubt in his mind that the Clerics were coming for him. He was surprised it had taken them that long to discover his relation to Julian, yet he'd secretly hoped it would go unnoticed.

He knew it would literally only take them a minute or two to reach his floor. He needed to act fast. Taking a Prozium capsule from his ampoule container – a real one this time – he stopped for a moment, clenching his fists.

_'To dose or not to dose… that is the question.'_

He couldn't even remember the last time he'd sedated himself. It must have been years and years ago. The very thought of it disgusted him, but his rational self knew very well that he did not have much of a choice unless he wanted to end up in the furnaces. He'd never faced a Cleric one on one before. Occasionally, he'd passed one in a crowd, and even then, when he hadn't been a suspect, it had made him disturbingly nervous. While he did not question his ability to successfully mask his emotions, he was aware of the fact that the instinctual bodily symptoms were much harder to control.

They were coming to search his home. They were going to interrogate him. Perhaps even take him to the Palace of Justice to run a polygraph test on him. It was going to be intense. He had no death wish. It would be madness to try and fool a Cleric.

He momentarily expected to be relieved when the amber liquid rushed along his veins, but then he shook his head at himself. He wasn't anything. He wasn't meant to be anything except calm and level-headed. Tranquil indifference was now his new state of mind.

When he heard the firm knock on the door, he waited just a moment not to give the impression he'd been anticipating it. Making his way back down the hallway, Jurgen eventually opened up to face two men dressed in menacing black.

"How may I help you?" he asked after a short pause, effortlessly faking a mildly surprised countenance. Knowing his heart rate would normally have slightly increased by now, it was strange to feel nothing at all. The discrepancy between his callous psyche and his still emotionally charged intellect was rather fascinating. The only similar experience he could think of was that of a spinal injury.

"I have a warrant to search your premises," the older Cleric informed him. No introduction was needed; Jurgen knew his name even though they'd never met before. Errol Partridge's reputation preceded him.

"I'm sure this is a misunderstanding," Jurgen said as he stepped back, letting the sweepers enter his apartment. "But do come in. I have nothing to hide."

"Excellent."

As the soldiers swarmed his apartment, Jurgen followed the two Clerics to the living-room. He sat down at the table as asked, intertwining his fingers as he rested his hands on the cool glass surface.

"Where's your brother?" Partridge asked him straight out, looking at him sternly.

"My… brother?"

"Julian Dawes. You share a parent with him. I assume you are aware that he conducted the despicable attack on our great society. So where is he?"

Jurgen shrugged slowly. "I don't know."

"You have no idea where he is?" Partridge kept at it.

"I don't. In fact, I'm not even sure when I last spoke to him."

"Perhaps we should refresh your memory then," Preston joined in, dropping a stack of pictures in front of Jurgen. They were prints of surveillance footage stills, recorded outside the Tetragrammaton Headquarters on the day before the bomb attack.

"Oh, of course." Jurgen momentarily tapped his forehead as though a forgotten triviality had just resurfaced. He'd thought that particular street corner was safe.

_'Looks like it's not.'_

At this moment, he was definitely glad to have taken the Prozium.

"What did he want?" Partridge asked, staring right into his eyes. Jurgen held the gaze just long enough not to give the impression he couldn't stand it, then looked down at the pictures again.

"Money."

"Money? What for?"

"I don't know, he wouldn't say."

The impression on the older Cleric's face made it clear he didn't believe a word.

"Did you give it to him?"

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

Again, Jurgen shrugged. "As I said, he wouldn't tell me what he needed the money for. And since I assumed he was a regular working citizen with a sufficient minimum wage to cover his living costs, I didn't think it was necessary to fulfil his request."

"So you had no idea he was a sense offender?" Partridge's eyes narrowed. "More so, you were not aware that he was plotting a terrorist attack?"

Unimpressed, Jurgen shook his head. "No, Sir. I've never taken any interest in him, or what he does. Dawes and I may have the same father, but I've never been part of the Dawes family. We hardly ever spoke."

"And you didn't think it was necessary to report the incident?"

"Why would I? I wasn't aware that requesting help was a punishable crime."

He'd barely finished his sentence when he realised he'd made a mistake. There was no undertone in his voice, and as far as he could tell his expression was neutral, but it wasn't enough to fully erase the underlying sarcasm. His eyes met Partridge's across the table, and he wondered if the Cleric had noticed it.

"Sir, no trace of EC-10 or unused Prozium. This unit is clear."

The sweeper captain interrupted them just in time, confirming the truth of Jurgen's lies to everyone present.

"I told you I have nothing to hide."

Partridge just nodded grimly as he gathered the photographs, handing them back to Preston. Jurgen sensed that for some reason he wasn't convinced, but the lack of evidence was going to save him from being arrested… at least for now.

"If you do remember something… _anything_ that could lead to your brother's arrest, come and see me," Partridge pressured him as he got up. At his signal, the sweepers exited the apartment.

Jurgen's lips twisted into an empty smile. "Certainly." 

**15**

Putting down his private copy of Virgil's Aeneid, DuPont traced the exquisitely illustrated cover as he slowly began to smile.

_'I should have thought of that years ago.'_

**16**

"Mary… look."

Jurgen sighed inwardly as he looked up from the maps that were spread out on the table in front of him. He'd been busy updating both the reported activity of disobedient dissident groups in the Nethers and recent Tetragrammaton raids when Mary had come in, telling him something about a girl she'd encountered at work the day before who apparently was a potential sense offender.

"Maybe she's off the dose, maybe she isn't," he shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I've got other things to worry about at the moment."

"Like what?"

"Like two senior Clerics who knocked on my door this morning."

Mary looked at him, incredulous. "They _knocked_? You mean your front door is actually still intact?"

Jurgen snorted irritably, rolling his eyes. "You don't get it, do you?"

Putting down the pen he'd been holding, he looked right at her. "This is _not_ the time to take _anything_ lightly. Perhaps you don't feel the rope tightening around your neck yet, but I do. And it radically put my priorities in order. Do you know what my top priority is? My people. Everyone here who has put their trust in me. If I make a mistake, they die. All of them. I'm not going to jeopardise their safety. So whatever it is with that girl, I don't care. We're not the Salvation Army, Mary. We can't afford to rescue random newcomers."

"Is that so?"

The knowing smirk on her lips caused him to frown. He didn't particularly like her teasing tone of voice either.

"What if I told you that her name is Grace Partridge?" Mary smiled triumphantly as she sat down on the edge of the desk, folding her arms.

"Partridge?" Suddenly Jurgen was all ears.

"Yes. As in, the Cleric kid."

"I'm listening."

"She's a student at the College of Administration. Shepherd happens to be her professor. Anyway, if she's not off the dose already, she will be pretty soon."

Jurgen did a mental double take to make sure he'd heard her correctly. Not only was this opportunity very unexpected, it almost seemed too good to be true. If Mary's instincts were right and the daughter of Libria's highest-ranking Cleric was feeling, the possibilities for the resistance were amazing. However, her last sentence alarmed him.

"What's that supposed to mean? You didn't…?"

"Give her fakes? I sure did. That's what we've got 'em for, right?"

Their eyes met across the table. Mary O'Brien wasn't the kind of woman to be easily intimidated, but this time she was the first one to look away.

"What?" she asked defiantly.

"The placebos are for our personal use, in case we have to dose while in public," Jurgen said, dangerously quiet. He wasn't the type who'd yell, but that didn't mean one couldn't tell when he was upset. "You know that. What's gotten into everyone lately? Does anyone here even listen to a word I say? Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I've taken a chance, that's what I've done!" Mary retorted stubbornly. "Yes, I've taken a risk. I'm aware of that. But there's no way we're getting anywhere without putting ourselves out on the line one way or another. At least let it be a calculated danger. We need to be proactive!"

Jurgen took a deep breath. Holding it for a moment, he eventually released it again, together with his irritation. She did have a point, he had to give her that. Having lost the brief and fickle sympathy of Father, their only shot at winning this war was to gain supporters in important positions. Nobody ever said that infiltrating the elite was going to be easy. There'd always be something at stake.

Despite his bad mood, a small hopeful smile conquered his lips.

"Let's keep a very close eye on her.' 

**17**

Viviana let out a soft sigh as she dropped a heavy box of EC-10 rated books on a small metal table in one of the storage rooms. Rubbing her burning palms together for a few moments to ease the discomfort, she eventually continued with her work. One by one she took the volumes out of the container and put them in their respective places on the shelves.

There were thousands of items locked away in the vaults of the evidentiary department, an extensive forbidden library waiting to burn. Viviana paused for a moment and reverently traced the beautifully illustrated cover of a copy of Shakespeare's Complete Works.

_'Such a shame,_' she thought sadly as she leafed through the pages. Sometimes her workplace felt like a morgue.

"Officer Preston?"

The book almost slipped through her hands when her supervisor's intercom call startled her, but she managed to compose herself quickly enough to prevent it. Allowing herself a second to breathe, she pressed the reply button.

"Yes?" she answered in same flat tone of voice as everybody else.

"I need you to come up."

Putting Shakespeare where he belonged, Viviana exited the storage rooms and went upstairs to the office area. She instantly noticed a cardboard container crammed with old paperback books on her desk. Among them were John Locke's 'Two Treatises of Government' and Machiavelli's 'The Prince'.

"Professor Shepherd has requested these for guided viewing. I need you to deliver them to the College straight away."

"Certainly."

The box was heavy, but Viviana refused to let that show as she left the evidentiary department behind and went on her way. Being a vital part of the Tetragrammaton, the college campus was located in the very centre of the administrative district, right next to the monastery. The fastest way to get there was to simply cross Freedom Plaza, but when she looked outside and saw that it was pouring down, she decided to take a detour instead. Pulling out her swipe card, she opened the sliding doors at the end of the corridor and descended into the underground.

The vast net of secret corridors and hidden passageways that supposedly existed underneath the surface of the city were both the worst and the best-kept secret in Libria. Most citizens knew about them, but due to the fact that only a fraction had ever been discovered, nobody could seriously estimate the full extension of 'the labyrinth'.

It was assumed that the tunnels were leftovers of old bunkers on whose ruins Libria had been built. When the bombs had finally stopped falling from the sky, all focus had been on damage control and reconstruction. It wasn't until demolition workers in Outer Libria accidentally discovered a hidden access point that the Council became aware of them.

An intense investigation that had lasted almost five years had uncovered the passage that now conveniently connected the evidentiary department with the Tetragrammaton Headquarters, the monastery and the College, as well as some minor tunnels elsewhere in the city. However, due to various complications – the lack of pre-war city maps marking the exact locations of the bunkers, and the fact that entire suburbs would have to be evacuated and possibly demolished to access what lay beneath – the operation had soon become more of a guessing game than a systematic search. Even though many experts estimated that the majority of the network remained undiscovered, the costly mission was eventually aborted. Viviana was quite sure that the tunnels were the one important reason why the Council had yet failed to locate and eradicate the resistance.

Resurfacing on campus, Viviana had no problems finding the right classroom. She delivered the books without wasting even a second, then left as quickly as she could without causing suspicion. She couldn't stand the young academics. While the average citizen was merely insensitive, the up and coming elite seemed particularly callous. Naturally, they had to be in order to carry on the ruthless doings of the Tetragrammaton. Except for the lack of combat skills, the young men and woman of the College had the same chilling aura about them as the aspiring Clerics.

Running through her mental checklist of chores to be done when she'd get home from work, Viviana pushed open the door of one of the female bathrooms on her way back. It wasn't until she heard a horrified gasp that she snapped out of her momentary trance and registered that she wasn't alone.

A blonde teenage girl dressed in an Administrator uniform was half sitting, half lying on the floor in front of her, shaking like a tiny leaf hurled about in a violent storm. Around her, the contents of her briefcase littered the sterile white tiles, supposedly having been tossed aside carelessly in a frantic search for something inside the bag. That something appeared to be the PIU the girl was clutching desperately, as though it was a life jacket that would save her from going under. Viviana also spotted various empty Prozium capsules among the mess. It took her a moment to order and process the onslaught of information. When it dawned on her what was going on, her eyes widened a little.

Squatting down as she took a closer look at the girl's terrified, tear-stained face, Viviana realised she looked somewhat familiar. After a moment or two, recognition set in. She'd last seen Errol Partridge's daughter at around the time when the senior Cleric had been assigned as her husband's mentor. Back then, she must have been about twelve. Nearly six years later, she'd obviously grown up, but the similarities were still there.

"Shhh… hey. It's okay. You're Grace, right?"

Viviana's voice was soft as she reached out. Grace flinched at the initial touch of her hand, then relaxed to some extent. Whether she was actually comfortable or just exhausted wasn't clear, but it didn't matter all that much.

"Are you going to report me?" The fearful undertone in her voice almost broke Viviana's heart.

"No, no. I'm on your side."

She smiled gently as she sat down next to her. Her mother instincts were boiling over. Regardless of her age, this girl needed to be held, rocked and calmed. However, she wasn't sure whether it was a wise idea right at that moment, and so she settled for a hand on the shoulder.

"What happened?' she asked.

Grace let out a sigh, struggling to hold back a sob. Covering her face with her quivering hands, she ran her fingers along her hair, brushing a few strands that had come undone back behind her ear.

"I… I've been feeling… strange for the last few days… I've been _feeling_… I've been taking my intervals, but… but… there's something wrong with them. At first… I thought maybe it's the headaches… but I've hardly had any for a while…"

Looking down at her PIU, she opened the placeholder lid and took out the last remaining capsule. Holding it between her thumb and index finger, she shook her head.

"Whatever this is… it's not Prozium. I've had… _emotional reactions_… to situations. It wasn't so bad at first… I didn't even realise… it was more like… a diffuse kind of vertigo. I kept telling myself I couldn't possibly be feeling, and it worked for a while. But… it's been getting worse. This morning…"

Her eyes fluttered shut as tears snuck up to her again. Rigorously wiping them away with the back of her hand before they could fall, she let out a shaky breath.

"I was on my way to class when one of the acolytes pointed at someone in the crowd," she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself like a fragile shield. "This girl… she was my age. She fought back… so the sweepers… they… they shot her. Right there on the street."

Swallowing hard, she added, "And nobody even flinched… except me."

She knew she'd been incredibly lucky to have gone unnoticed, but that did not make her feel any better. This time, Grace lost the battle. Running down her cheeks in a thin, steady flow, the tears burned her skin as though they were pure hydrochloric acid. She whimpered softly as she rocked back and forth, her petite body shaking with each sob.

Viviana hesitated but a second before pulling the girl to her. She half-expected resistance, but Grace didn't fight her. Stiffening for only a moment, she soon rested her head against Viviana's shoulder as she cried silently. Not knowing what to do with her arms at first, she eventually wrapped them around the other woman. Clinging to her as though she was never going to let go again, Grace crumbled. As helpless fear, mixed up with shock and sheer compassion for the victim, overtook her, her mind descended into chaos. Her whole body became heavy and rigid as a paralysing coldness crept along her veins, overtaking every little fibre of her body and causing her blood to freeze. Her heart rapidly turned into a giant lump of ice. The tiny hairs on her neck rose swiftly when a frosty shiver shot down her spine. Within moments, her once exceptionally stable psyche became one big, suffocating blur. She was a panting, trembling mess, drenched in cold sweat.

Yet slowly, she became increasingly aware of that other human body that was so close to hers. It was soft, and it exuded an incredible warmth that was amazingly contagious. Once that warmth had found a safe landing spot, it began to spread inside her, fighting back the coldness that had gripped her earlier. As her heart anxiously started pounding again, the sound of a much more steady heartbeat eventually tamed her own. As they fell in synch with one another, an unbelievable calmness filled her. Gradually, her mind resurfaced from the ocean of overpowering emotions, shyly reordering itself.

"I know it feels as though you're drowning," Viviana said softly as she stroked the girl's back. "But it'll pass. With time, you'll learn how to live with your feelings… how to be in control of them."

Grace sighed deeply as she pulled back, drying her eyes.

"I'm not sure I want this," she whispered, glancing at the capsule she'd been holding on to all the while. It wasn't too late to go to the nearest Equilibrium centre and simply replace her intervals. Oblivion was only an injection away…

"Sweetheart…"

Touching the side of her face, Viviana made her turn her head and face her.

"Emotion is what life is all about. It's the purpose of everything you do. Without love, without anger, without sorrow, you're walking but a straight line from cradle to grave. And what's the point of this life if it's nothing more than a transition from non-existence back to nothingness? Only the dead feel nothing at all."

When the face of the old woman flashed before her eyes, Grace swallowed again.

"But… what about war?" she insisted. "What about murder? What about rape? What about all the everyday cruelties that have ceased to exist? You speak of emotion as though there is no downside to it."

"There is a downside to it, you're right," Viviana replied patiently. "But it's about choice. It's about control. Libria's language and thinking is riddled with this myth of passivity. Two people 'fall' in love like falling into a tiger trap. You're 'plagued' by remorse as if by mosquitos. Anger is said to 'strike' like lightning. Someone would be 'felled' by shame like a tree by an axe, and 'haunted' by guilt as if by a ghost. We've used those metaphors so often, they've come to sound perfectly natural. But they're not. To believe that emotion is some kind of fatal disease of which you inevitably become a helpless victim, to think of it as a slave master of the mind is to discredit the power your intellect as a whole."

She paused for a moment, giving Grace some time to let those thoughts sink in.

"I would be lying if I denied that one evil person can easily harm a hundred peaceful people," she continued in a soft, but firm voice. "But that does not mean that this person is right, or that one flawed point of view, one failure, is ever grave enough to question and overrule the existence of emotion. Millions of innocent people have died by a bullet, and yet it's not the gun that killed them. It's always the person who does, or doesn't, pull the trigger."

Grace was about to point out that taking the gun away would easily solve the problem when she realised that there'd still be plenty of other ways to kill a man. It wasn't a particularly comforting analogy, but she understood what Viviana was trying to say. Treating the symptoms did not solve the actual problem. Still, the thought of putting herself on the line like this was unspeakably daunting.

"What if I can't do it?" Her fearful eyes met Viviana's. "I don't think I'm strong enough."

She gave the girl's hand a gentle squeeze. "Trust me. You are."

Grace sighed deeply. Biting her lip, the inhaled deeply before releasing the air again slowly. "Will you help me?"

Viviana smiled softly. "Of course." 


	4. Chapter 4

**18**

It was still dark when Grace reached the rooftop of the large building that hosted her father's apartment. The silence that surrounded her was almost tangible, and she treaded softly not to make any noise. Stepping right up to the edge so her bare toes were hovering mid-air, she took in the sight of the city stretching out ahead below her. There seemed to be no beginning and no end to it; occasionally a light would flicker in the midst of the infinite blackness, and only if one looked very closely the fine line between earth and sky became visible at all. 

Grace closed her eyes as she spread her arms out to the sides to keep her balance. Knowing that she was standing right on the verge of a very deep abyss caused her heart rate to quadruple within a split second. There was no parapet, no barrier, no safety net, nothing to prevent her from taking a fall twenty-five storeys down if she slipped. Losing her grip even for a second would end in certain death, and the mere thought of it was beyond terrifying. In spite of this, she forced herself to keep her breathing normal.

'_Breathe in… and out. In… and out. Don't panic. Mind over matter.'_

Still, she felt the adrenaline rush along her veins, felt how her hands began to quiver and how her knees began to shake. She swallowed hard.

For a moment, she was scared to death.

Then, gradually, the fear subsided. This wasn't the first time she was up there, endangering herself on purpose. She'd done this before. It wasn't getting any less petrifying, but by doing it she kept reminding herself that she could handle it. That she _had _to handle it. Her legs became strong once more, and her flailing arms stilled. The lump in her throat crumbled, and the knot in her stomach dissolved. She did not move, except to inhale and exhale, slowly and deeply. Listening to her own, steady heartbeat and to her breath travelling through her body, she eventually began to smile.

She was in control again.

Opening her eyes, Grace watched as the sun ascended the sky, golden and brilliant. Gradually, the black sky evolved into a flaming red, and when the first warm rays of light touched her face, a gentle tingling sensation rushed down her spine. Raising her arms and reaching out for the radiant firmament, she couldn't help but laugh joyfully. 

"Please give me the strength to get through this day," Grace whispered into the wind as it came dancing past, toying with her golden locks for a little while before moving on. Taking a last deep breath, she braced herself. Then she stepped back and turned around, heading back inside.

It was time for the masquerade to begin. 

**19**

Partridge briefly looked up from his newspaper when Grace entered the dining room. Dropping her briefcase next to the table, she pushed a last pin into her hair as she headed straight for the kitchen to prepare herself some breakfast.

"You were up early this morning," he remarked. 

"I couldn't sleep," she answered calmly as she put the kettle on. "And it was close enough to my set alarm, so I got up."

The Cleric watched her intently for a moment. "Is something troubling you?"

Returning with a bowl of plain cereal, she sat down opposite her father. 

"I'm fine," she replied nonchalantly. "A little overworked, but that won't be a problem."

Partridge nodded simply as he returned his attention to the day's headlines. "You'll get used to it." 

"Of course." Listlessly, she started eating.

"However," he added after a short pause, "if the insomnia persists, I suggest you visit the physician at Equilibrium and perhaps have your dose adjusted."

Grace was very tempted to laugh at the irony of it, but of course she knew better. She wasn't completely off Prozium just yet. It hadn't taken her very long to figure out that, instead of injecting the sedative, occasionally drinking about a third of her morning dose was extremely helpful on a stressful day – and she'd had plenty of those recently. Calming her nerves without completely numbing her delicate new feelings, she considered it a compromise worth making until she'd be confident and skilled enough to master the full emotional range. 

Besides, the enormous workload at College wasn't the real reason for her lack of sleep and subsequent exhaustion. It was simply the price that she had to pay for leading a double life. Suddenly there was even less time to work off her duties at a normal hour, and so she'd made a habit out of turning night into day. Consequently, her mind often failed to shut down when she actually _did _have the opportunity to rest. 

'_I guess behind every successful sense offender, there's a substantial amount of coffee,' _she thought to herself as she got back up when the kettle wheezed. 

She'd been at Viviana's house every morning for the past two weeks, learning how to deal with her continuous emotional awakening. They would talk for as long as time permitted, discussing Viviana's own experiences, the bomb attack, and how it had pushed Grace down the path she was now walking on. There was still a hint of reluctance in her every action, and Grace suspected it was because deep down she was so very afraid of the future. It had all been so safe and crystal clear not too long ago… now she felt as though she was walking through a foggy labyrinth. Within a few days, she'd become too spirited to ever enslave herself to a faulty ideology again, but she was not nearly as convinced of her new way of life as she wanted and needed to be in order to make it truly worthwhile. She was stuck somewhere in-between. Part of her just wasn't quite willing to risk her life so she could _be _alive – it was such a complete paradox! 

More often than not, living with emotions seemed like a Sisyphean task. For instance, they were hardly ever pure. The majority of them comprised two or more related sentiments, sometimes even contradictory ones, which made it extremely hard to 'diagnose' and channel them accordingly. And if that wasn't confusing enough already, they often caused or led to one another, back and forth. The more time Grace spent trying to figure out the big picture, the more she felt as though she didn't have a clue about anything at all. There was far too much to take in, so much more to explore than could ever be found. Just when she thought she'd gotten the hang of one particular aspect of an issue, a multitude of new questions and problems attacked her from out of nowhere. Nothing was even remotely as simple as the Tetragrammaton had made it out to be. 

And it wasn't just the impenetrable big picture that aggravated her. The fact that she'd dived headlong into an ocean of previously unknown trivial complications didn't help either. Suddenly she hated her tasteless breakfast cereal and the watery, flavourless coffee. She'd get annoyed when the crowd of commuters did not walk fast enough for her liking. Queuing twenty minutes for lunch at the cafeteria bothered her. And so on and so forth. Sometimes it seemed as though her only 'gain' was frequent frustration. It wasn't quite what she'd bargained for.

Viviana had merely chuckled when she'd complained to her about it all the day before.

"Patience, dear, " she'd said. "Rome wasn't built in a day. You need to take one step at a time."

It wasn't what Grace had wanted to hear, but she'd reluctantly accepted its truth. There was a reason why so many sense offenders got caught – too many just got way ahead of themselves. At least, so she'd concluded with a hint of irony towards her impatience, she'd managed to find herself a somewhat guided tour through all the trials and tribulations. 

When the doorbell broke the silence, Grace got up and answered the intercom call in the hallway. 

"Your partner's here," she told her father as she returned to the dining room. Preston was early this morning. Unless the Clerics were scheduled for a pre-dawn raid, she was usually the first to leave the house.

Partridge put his newspaper down, then went to put on his coat. Buttoning it up, he looked over at her.

"Are you ready?"

Grace blinked. "What, me?" 

When he nodded, she shrugged lightly. She knew she should finish her breakfast, but she wasn't particularly hungry. "Almost. Why?"

"We're going into the City this morning," the Cleric replied as he crossed the room to fetch his firearms. "You're coming with me."

It wasn't an offer, it was an order. Lucky for her, Partridge's back was turned to her as Grace's jaw dropped. She hurriedly fixed her expression before he turned back around, but inside her head, all hell broke loose. 

'_A ride? In the Clerics' car?'_

She couldn't believe it. As far as she knew, not even Helen had ever seen the vehicle from the inside. As a matter of fact, she doubted anyone who wasn't a Cleric (or aspiring to be one) ever had. Grace instantly felt her heart rate quicken. 

'_Why would he want to take me with him? Except to drop me off at the Hall of Enforcement…'_

She didn't have class until late morning. Didn't he know that? Maybe not. Had he noticed that she'd changed? Was he suspicious? Had she made a mistake? Was it a trap? It _had _to be. She felt helpless. But she knew she could not refuse.

"Let me get my coat."

**20**

By the time she arrived at Freedom Reading Room, Grace's mental exhaustion had reached an unknown new low. She still had no idea what had prompted her father to take her with him in the car. She constantly expected to be found out, and thus she wondered if he'd tried to elicit a reaction of some sort. No matter how many times she ran through the events of the past fortnight, regardless of how hard she tried to convince herself she hadn't made a mistake, she sincerely doubted her ability to fool Libria's highest-ranking Cleric. Her only advantage was the little time they actually spent together. But maybe he _had _noticed something… a triviality that had slipped her mind. He hadn't paid much attention to her after they'd left, but that didn't necessarily mean he hadn't been watching her. Wasn't it possible that he was just waiting for her to slip up?

Sitting next to John Preston in the back seat had been the most gruelling thirty-one minutes of her life. They'd briefly engaged in some small talk – yes, she'd fully recovered from the bomb attack. Yes, she was now a student at the College of Administration. Yes, she was honoured to have been chosen as future Administrator. But the hardest part had been the silence that had followed the short conversation. Grace had struggled to simultaneously avoid both excessive staring out of the window, and looking at either of the men for too long. Obviously Preston was unaware of his wife's secret, but that did not mean he couldn't pick up on her. Eventually, she'd saved herself by opening her briefcase and pulling out the instructions for her latest assignment. Thinking about which additional books she'd need and how much time to put into it had kept her preoccupied enough not to do anything stupid. 

Battling the desire to noisily drop a pile of books on an empty desk near the back corner of the room, Grace almost choked on the amount of breath she had to force back down her throat to suppress a loud sigh. The most important rule at Freedom Reading Room was silence. Unnecessary disturbance of any kind was more than just strongly discouraged. 

Sitting down, she reluctantly pulled out her note pad and pencil case, then opened 'Elements of Law'. It wasn't like she was capable of making up a single decent sentence right at this moment, but since she couldn't visit Viviana this morning, she could at least _pretend_ to be doing something productive. Perhaps her brain would miraculously start working if she taunted it just long enough. 

"Excuse me? Grace Partridge?"

She looked up from her notes when the proprietor stepped up to her desk, adding two more books to her collection. 

"Yes?" 

"You reserved these take-home copies of 'Concerning Religion' and 'About Philosophy' last week. May I see your authorisation, please?"

"Certainly," she replied flatly, sliding her student identity card across the table. 

"Thank you."

Watching the man walk away, she eventually returned her attention to the massive book in front of her. How one country, especially Libria, could have so many laws was beyond her comprehension. She reckoned most of them were quite superfluous anyway.

'_Sedate yourself, and obey your superiors at all times… isn't that pretty much it?'_

Grace knew that sarcasm was anything but useful, and that she really needed to watch it. But it was her indulgence of choice, and occasionally she just couldn't resist.

Half an hour later, she finally gave up. How she was going to make it through five demanding classes when she couldn't even write the rough draft of a paper at her own pace was yet to be revealed, but Grace hoped her autopilot would somehow save her, again. Even when she was beyond tired, and thus incapable of thinking independently, her mind was still just efficient enough to have her pay sufficient attention to what the lessons were about. It took some effort to recapitulate the facts later and, with the help of books, fill in the gaps, but it worked. Before she'd been off the dose, she'd taken it for granted to function at all times, no matter what the circumstances. It wasn't until recently that she fully realised what a precious gift it really was. 

She still had over an hour to kill until her first class. Reaching out for 'Concerning Religion', she randomly flicked through the pages, speed-reading through one paragraph or another here and there. The book did not elaborate on the different faiths as much as it defamed the very idea of religion itself, but from what she gathered from the short descriptions of each individual belief, love, tolerance and forgiveness had always been central. Grace felt incredibly sad when she recalled the reason for the outbreak of the War. 

"Hatred is easy. Love, on the other hand, takes courage," Viviana had told her not long ago. 

'_I guess the majority of the population were cowards back then...'_

Grace was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not notice the small piece of paper stuck between two pages at first. It wasn't until she'd been staring at the note with empty eyes for a few moments that she actually became aware of it. Blinking, she frowned ever so softly as she picked it up to read what was written on it. 

'_Overheard conversation between Cleric Kaine and Cleric Guillory,' _it said. _'Raid scheduled for 9am tomorrow, sector 9.'_

Taken aback, Grace frowned. Then she read the short letter again, just to make sure her mind wasn't playing tricks on her. When she was fairly certain that she wasn't delirious, she leaned back in her chair, chewing the inside of her cheek as she kept looking at the note. She didn't know what to think of it, other than realising she must have accidentally intercepted a piece of what appeared to be Resistance correspondence. Clearly, she wasn't the intended recipient. It was obvious that the information was confidential. She wondered if it was still relevant. The paper wasn't dated, so chances were that the message was old, but what if it wasn't? Grace shuddered when it dawned on her what responsibility she possibly had. If 'tomorrow' really meant tomorrow, it was up to her whether or not those people in sector 9 were going to die. 

She instantly felt tempted to just destroy the note and pretend she'd never found it. No harm done… right? But the very moment she even thought it, she felt guilty. Grace hated to admit it, but she knew she wouldn't be able to live with herself if choosing the easy way out meant signing someone else's death warrant. 

'_But what am I supposed to do? _Is_ there anything I can do at all?'_

There was no way she could warn those who were concerned. Even if she were allowed to pass into the Nethers by herself, her chances of actually stumbling upon someone by chance was slim. Or getting back alive if she did happen to stumble upon someone, for that matter. Neither could she prevent the raid. She couldn't have thought of a realistic way to interfere if her life had depended on it. It looked as though she was powerless. 

Gradually, desolation overtook her. The only thing that was worse than cowardly opting for the easy way out was _having_ to do so due to a lack of alternatives. 

Crushing the paper as she clenched her fist, Grace stuffed it into her pocket, then started packing up. Leaving Freedom Reading Room behind, she headed across Independence Square, towards the nearest train station. It wasn't until she started searching her briefcase for her travel pass that she abruptly stopped in her tracks. With a slight delay, a crucial little detail from the subconscious part of her mind had unexpectedly crossed over to the other side.

Pulling the note back out, she hastily unfolded it. Looking at it for barely a second, her intuition was quickly confirmed. 

'_I know that handwriting!'_

**21**

She'd delayed her departure for as long as possible by taking her time to pack up after her last class, and it wasn't until all the other students had left the room that Grace approached Dr David Shepherd. 

"Sir, I've got a question about the paper on Machiavelli." 

The professor nodded briefly. "What do you not understand?"

Dropping her copy of 'The Prince' on the desk between them, Grace opened it on page 407. 

"I'm not sure how to interpret this particular paragraph," she stated calmly, pointing at the note she'd glued in at the bottom of the page. 

They exchanged a look across the table, and while his countenance did not give him away for even a split second, Grace could tell from the expression in his eyes that Shepherd knew exactly what she was implying. More so, she almost felt as though he'd been expecting her. 

"I've got another class now," he told her as he picked up his briefcase. "Meet me outside room 76 in an hour, then I'll explain it to you."

Watching him as he headed for the door, Grace put the book back in her bag. 

'_It better be good.'_

**22**

"This is a polygraph. It detects fluctuation of –"

"I know." 

Making himself as comfortable as one could possibly be on a plain wooden chair, Jurgen shrugged lightly at the rather brusque interruption. 

"Let's get started then."

"Yes. Let's."

Grace didn't care if she was rude. Calm as she was on the outside, she was extremely upset. It had only been a few minutes ago that she'd found out she'd been set up. It didn't matter to her that she'd started doubting Librian values even before she'd been off the dose, which might eventually have led to ceasing her intervals. What bothered her was the fact that she'd been manipulated and played against her will. She also had no idea how she'd gotten to this hidden labyrinth beneath the city because she'd been blindfolded. And now she was supposed to bare her emotions in front of complete strangers. 

"Your father," Jurgen said, looking at her intently. "You're afraid of being discovered."

The polygraph needle shivered just a little bit, but there was no significant change on the diagram. Grace felt strangely proud. Maybe she wasn't as bad at mastering the passions as she'd thought she was. 

"Aren't we all?" she retorted. 

Jurgen frowned. Her crisp diction and the cool undertone in her voice were a little too reminiscent of a Cleric for his liking. He exchanged a quick look with Shepherd, who shook his head, confused. Had they made a terrible mistake? 

"You've been working late for weeks," he continued. "The pressure of keeping up standards when leading a double life… that must be exhausting."

Again, the variation on the polygraph was minimal. Grace chuckled dryly.

"Coffee helps."

Jurgen was a little worried at first. This wasn't quite going as planned. It took him a moment to pick up the underlying humour of her reply. Perhaps they weren't as wrong as he'd briefly thought.

"Five weeks ago, you were the victim of a bomb attack. You survived, but your mother died." 

It was a complete shock surprise for Grace when she unexpectedly felt cold. She'd never really thought about her mother's fate. A frosty shiver shot down her spine, and she shuddered. At the same time, there was a sudden sharp pain in her chest, around where her heart was. It was sheer agony, and she bit her bottom lip hard in an attempt to stop her eyes from watering. But it was useless. A treacherous tear slowly made its way down her cheek. 

This time, the polygraph did register considerable highs and lows. 

Jurgen let out a silent sigh of relief. He secretly regretted to have caused the obviously genuine hurt on the girl's face, but there just was no other way to test potential new members. They had to be sure.

"I've got a job for you," he told Mary as he got up. Comforting people had never been a strength of his. 

Switching off the machine and undoing the various cords that had been attached to Grace, Mary gently placed a hand on the young woman's shoulder, the other one taking one of hers. 

"Come with me," she coaxed her, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

Grace did not argue or fight. Somehow she managed to put one foot in front of the other, until they got to a quiet corner. There, Mary sat her down in an old armchair. 

"D'ya wanna talk 'bout it?" she asked softly.

Grace shook her head as she pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. The tears just _kept_ coming. Part of her failed to understand why the memory of the bombings suddenly struck her like this. She'd talked to Viviana about the attack before. It took her a little while to realise that she'd never mentioned Helen. Not once. It was almost as though she'd never existed. Grace recalled walking to the station with her, and looking for her in the chaos of the aftermath, but the memories were already blurry and faded, as though it wasn't worth remembering. 

'_I should be ashamed of myself.'_

"She was sitting right next to me, you know," she suddenly whispered, unable to resist the urge to voice her pain. "And she got blown to pieces, while I got away with barely a scratch… it just doesn't seem fair."

Mary felt a slightly painful pull in her chest. She'd never seen such sadness and guilt all at once. Taking a seat on the chair's armrest, she tenderly rubbed the girl's back. 

"Don't beat yourself up for surviving," she said soothingly. "I'm sure that's the last thing your mother would want."

Grace sighed loudly. Mary was probably right, but that didn't make her feel much better. But she knew that she had to pull herself out of this black hole. She couldn't stay here forever. Wiping the tears away with the back of her hand, she took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself down.

"I could sure use some Prozium," she mumbled half-jokingly. 

Mary grinned. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

Puzzled, Grace watched her disappear through a door further down the main corridor, only to return a few moments later with two glasses and a bottle of amber liquid. 

"This'll boost your mood," Mary announced as she handed her one glass.

"What is it?" Grace inquired sceptically. 

"Scotch," she replied cheerfully. "Ten times better than Prozium, if consumed in adequate amounts."

Taking a small sip of the drink, Grace barely managed to avoid spitting it right back out. She pulled a face. "Are you sure?" 

"Yep. Keep drinking."

Furrowing her brows, Grace mentally counted to three before draining the glass in one gulp. The next moment, she was coughing and gasping for air because she felt as though her throat was on fire. Not much later, there was a weird tingling in her stomach that she was completely unfamiliar with. Not to mention a slight light-headedness. 

"More?" 

"No, thanks. I think I'll be okay."

Mary chuckled. "Told ya. So, you're not mad at me anymore about the fakes?"

Grace sighed inwardly as she traced the rim of the glass with her index finger. "You can't just interfere with people's lives like that."

"What d'you suggest I should've done? Ask you for permission first?"

"Uhm…"

Unable to come up with a good answer, Grace shrugged. "I don't know. It's just… being off the dose is hard enough. Joining the resistance doesn't exactly simplify things. What do you want from me, anyway?"

"Don't worry about all that just yet," Mary replied reassuringly. "Once you've settled in, we'll see how you can be of use. Nobody will force you to do anything you're not comfortable with."

"Alright."

Hesitating for a moment, she eventually changed her mind and held her glass out to Mary for a refill. 

"The guy who conducted the bomb attack," she eventually asked as she took another sip. "Is he here?"

"Julian?" Mary nodded. "Why?"

Staring down at her hands, Grace held her breath for a moment, then released it slowly. She felt how her heart rate increased almost instantly. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea right then and there, but she couldn't help it. There were questions spinning around in her head that needed to be answered.

"I'd like to speak to him."

**23**

Three hours after she'd gone to bed, Grace still couldn't sleep. It was long past midnight, but she couldn't stop rolling over, again and again. Her mind was in overdrive. Her only comfort was the fact that the next day was her scheduled rest day, so at least she did not have to worry about getting up in the morning… within reason. 

It was the conversation she'd had with Julian Dawes around which most of her thoughts revolved. She'd felt such anger at first, fuelled by the hurt inside her, which she hadn't known, existed. If it hadn't been for Mary and Jurgen, Grace was fairly certain she would have punched him in the face as a hello. 

"_Did you really think it would change anything?"_

_- "I didn't necessarily want it to change anything. I just wanted to bring the blood spilling back to where it came from."_

It had been his brutal honesty, combined with sincere regret, that had eventually softened her heart a little. He'd asked her for forgiveness, and she'd told him she wasn't quite ready for that yet. 

Finally, Grace got up. She wasn't going to find some peace anytime soon. Tiptoeing along the dark hallway, she crossed the living-room and entered the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. Leaning against the counter, she let out a soft sigh as she sipped her drink. 

'_What a day!…'_

A thud from her father's bedroom startled her. Frowning softly, she put the glass into the sink before making her way back to see what had caused the noise. She knew that Errol Partridge wasn't the kind to trip or accidentally knock things over. Besides, it was the middle of the night. Weren't people supposed to be sleeping? Something about that sound was a bit odd, and she blamed her newfound instincts for reacting this way.

"Errol?" she whispered as she quietly pushed his bedroom door open. There was no answer, and once her eyes had gotten fully used to the dark, she saw that he was sound asleep.

Then she spotted the broken bedside lamp on the floor. 

'_What…?'_

Grace jumped when Partridge suddenly growled, feeling the blood freeze in her veins. It took her a moment to realise that he wasn't talking _to_ her but mumbling something in his sleep. She couldn't make out what it was until he started tossing and turning frantically in his bed, eventually coming to lie on his back, shaking. 

When she did, her eyes widened in shock.

"It's not… safe… he's… still out there… no… no, no… don't take the train, Gracie…"


	5. Chapter 5

**24**

Sector 13 had been known as 'Dissidents' Paradise' since the creation of Libria. 

Except for a few years that had brought exceptionally harsh winters, nonconformist activity there had never really ceased. Located far west of the Outer Librian suburbs, it was still close enough to the City in terms of much needed supplies, but too remote and inaccessible for the constant close-circuit supervision that the zone needed. The heavy forest, dense undergrowth and rugged terrain made vehicle access extremely difficult. At the same time, deserted settlements hidden within the gorges of the steep mountain range offered shelter and protection for the various groups of EC-10 hoarding sense offenders that were assumed to be hiding and operating from there. 

It was the Thermopylae of Libria. After the spectacular failure of a major offensive during the Second Concilliary's early years that had cost the lives of four Clerics and countless sweepers, the Tetragrammaton had dealt with the sector in an 'out of sight, out of mind' approach. Only short-term action would be taken in response to illegal border crossings, occasional robberies and assaults in the nearby outskirts. However, the recent upheaval called for a change of course. Mostly at odds with one another (and thus weakening themselves) or not, the different fractions of delinquents were a dormant threat that could simply no longer be risked.

Partridge was determined that neither he nor Preston were going to be another casualty. Together with an armada of sweepers, they'd been sent out to finally sort the mess out for good before more bombs would explode on Inner Librian territory. He considered six weeks of intense preparation adequate for a successful mission. He also trusted that the Tetragrammaton had sufficiently analysed the initial disaster, and drawn significant conclusions from it. It was to be expected that the panel of military strategists, with the help of remaining veterans who'd been to the area, had done a much better job at planning the second time around. 'Operation Eden' was expected to last at least seven days. 

It was Preston's first major assignment as Grammaton Cleric First Class, and he was determined to prove that he wasn't wearing his black coat for nothing. 

'_Perhaps a little too determined,' _Partridge thought to himself as they rode in silence, towards their provisional base camp. 

His partner was by far the youngest Cleric to ever have been promoted, having beaten the Vice Council himself by a good two years. There was no doubt whatsoever that Preston's combat skills had yet to find their match, but that wasn't what concerned the older Cleric. He knew that his former apprentice considered himself more or less invincible… something he'd witnessed before. The faded memory of how an abundance of confidence could lead to a faulty perception of the enemy's ability, and subsequently to great misfortune, was suddenly pressing at the back of his mind again. He was not worried, because that was well out of the legal emotional range, wasn't it? But Partridge knew very well that pride always came before a fall.

'_Gabriel was exactly the same.'_

He did not want history to repeat itself. 

**25**

At first Grace was surprised to find the Underground Headquarters deserted, but then it dawned on her that while she had the privilege of a free period mid-morning, the majority of resistance members were to be at work. 

She had hoped to have a word with Jurgen about what she could do to help, but since that wasn't going to happen for now, she flopped down on the old, ragged couch in the corner of what was used as the common room, and opened her notebook. Viviana had had to work a lot of extra hours because of staff shortage due to sickness, so she hadn't seen her at all for a week. The good thing about this was that Grace had actually finished her law paper on time without depriving herself of much needed sleep. All she had to do was read through it a few more times to fix minor spelling and punctuation flaws. The major downside, however, was that the emotional kettle inside her was about to boil over. 

The image of her father tossing and turning in his bed at night had engraved itself deep into her memory. Grace found it extremely disturbing. Errol Partridge and death were more or less synonymous. The only way to make it to where he was in the hierarchy of the Tetragrammaton was sheer callousness. She could picture almost anyone as a sense offender, except Libria's highest-ranking Cleric. And yet, deep down beneath the surface, something in him seemed to be stirring. Perhaps the human mind and soul were of a much greater depth than any chemist could ever attempt to control with a sedative. 

Grace wondered if Errol remembered anything at all when he woke up in the morning. Did he somehow sense that he was secretly worried about her? She assumed he didn't, or otherwise she was fairly certain she would have noticed some kind of change in him. But the doubt was killing her, as was the increased threat of being discovered. What if his either flawed or insufficient medication would strengthen his intuition just enough to uncover her secret? Was it perhaps only a matter of time until he'd become aware of his nightmares? If so, how much longer did she have before he would realise what was going on with her? Naturally, the official pamphlet from Libria's early days did not even mention possible failures, complications or side effects of Prozium, and other than that there was no information that was freely accessible. She had hoped to ask Viviana if Preston dreamed at all, but she hadn't yet had the opportunity to do that. 

"Anyway, I'm gonna make tea. Want some?"

Grace jumped when she unexpectedly found herself being spoken to. Looking up, she rolled her eyes when she saw Julian Dawes standing in the doorway.

"Do you always sneak up to people?" she snapped.

He chuckled. "I've been here for a good five minutes. Asked you how your morning was, too."

"Are you serious?" 

"Absolutely."

Chewing the inside of her cheek, Grace attempted to hide behind her notebook as a strange mixture of embarrassment and annoyance filled her. She really needed to work on not getting lost in thoughts. 

"Aren't you supposed to be somewhere else?" Julian asked as he folded his arms. "School or something?"

"No?" Grace replied irritably, wishing he'd mind his own business. "Aren't you?

"Like where?"

"Like, the furnaces?" 

"Now that's kinda mean."

"I know. I've been waiting to say that to you."

"Ouch."

They exchanged a long, purposeful look across the room. Julian swallowed when he saw the hurt and anger in her eyes. Could he blame her? The feelings of guilt about what he'd done were nothing compared to the shame that gripped him at the sight of Grace. Suddenly one of his victims had a face, a name, and a history. He could no longer dehumanize those who had suffered by considering them an abstract, insensitive multitude. Each of them was a person who was just as real as her. 

Julian knew that he deserved every bit of hostility and contempt from her, and yet he could not help but seek her company in hope of forgiveness. To him, she represented all those who had been killed or wounded, and he felt that, if _anyone_ at all, she was in the exclusive position to grant him absolution. The fact that she was breathtakingly beautiful did not exactly simplify matters.

"Look," he said quietly, "I know I'm probably the last person you want to talk to. I just want you to know how sorry I really am."

"I know. You've told me," she replied flatly. 

"Do you believe me?"

Their eyes met again, and Grace sighed inwardly. Shutting her notebook, she traced its smooth metal surface with her fingertips as she looked down at the floor for quite a while.

"I do," she eventually answered, swallowing lightly. "It's just a lot easier for me to accept this apology on an intellectual level than it is to make my peace with it emotionally." 

Julian nodded slowly. "I understand."

He was about to leave when Grace unexpectedly spoke to him again.

"So, you're down here by yourself all day?"

Turning back around, he shrugged as he crossed the room, grabbing a chair and sitting down opposite her.

"Yeah. I can't leave this place. If anyone sees me, I'm a dead man." 

Grace frowned. "So basically, this is your prison?"

"Pretty much."

"What do you do all day?"

"Well…" Julian vaguely pointed down the corridor. "There are a lot of big, empty rooms down that way. Perfect for working out. Or, if I can't be bothered, there's always the library."

"The library?"

"Our very own collection of EC-10 rated literature. It's not Alexandria, mind you, but it's big enough to kill a few hours every day. You haven't seen it?"

Grace shook her head. "What… what kind of books do you have there?"

Julian looked at her intently. He was about to gamble, and he had no idea whether it was going to pay off or turn out to be a complete failure. But he decided to give it a go. 

"Want me to show you?"

**26**

The partisan sniper was dead long before he hit the ground, killed by a single skilled headshot from Partridge. Nevertheless, he had almost accomplished what he'd set out to do on his lonely suicide mission – to assassinate a Cleric. 

The same moment the man had fired his shot, Preston had momentarily lost his grip on the slippery gravel that covered the ground, skidding sideways. It was an unnecessary lapse, but in this case, it had saved his life. The bullet that had been destined for his heart had instead merely grazed his shoulder.

Preston briefly groaned through clenched teeth as he reloaded his firearms, then immediately repositioned himself. Back to back, the two Clerics effortlessly fell into the perfectly synchronized, deadly rhythm of the Gun Kata. Shrieks of pain and terror echoed around the valley as their adversaries fell one after the other, their bodies littering the basin. When they reached the river, and when there was no-one left standing, the guns finally fell silent. 

The mission was not going great, but it was at least going somewhat according to plan. A sweeper team had captured two offenders the day before yesterday, who had turned out to be group leaders on their way to an emergency meeting. During the usual clinical processing, they'd eventually confessed everything they knew. With the information obtained from them, it would only be a matter of time before the rest of the weeds would be plucked. 

There was, however, one last major stronghold to be conquered. On the other side of the river, there was a narrow passageway that led to the highest peaks of the mountain range. It was up there to where, according to the prisoners, the majority of sense offenders had retreated. 

It was the third day they'd spent trying to break through the narrow gates - and it had been a costly three days. With shooters in every crack and hollow, it was simply impossible to pass through the corridor without getting killed. There was no strength in numbers either, and Partridge knew that the enemy was all too aware of that. Their advantage had made them bolder, sending out scouts and snipers in an attempt to take back the valley. Until now, they'd managed to take them all down without too much trouble, but they were slowly running out of sweepers. Backup was on the way, but until then they had to remain passive and resort to a defensive strategy. It was a rather unnerving situation. 

Partridge's eyes fluttered shut as the white Cadillac Seville carried him and Preston back to their camp a few hours later. His body was tired and screamed for the kind of rest he knew he wasn't going to get before all this would be done. His mind, however, was in overdrive. 

He'd felt restless ever since they'd made it to this particular valley, and he had no idea why. Looking out the window, his brows furrowed ever so slightly. He constantly felt a faint sense of déjà vu at the sight of the scenery, and he just couldn't explain it. If he didn't know better, he would have thought it might be an elusive memory lurking in the twilight zone between the conscious and subconscious part of his mind. But Partridge was absolutely certain that he had never been to this remote region of the Nethers before. 

At least not as far as he could recall.

**27**

"And you're absolutely sure nobody's going to miss those items?"

"Yes. My friend is an evidentiary officer, and she says that once the confiscated material has been catalogued and stored, nobody ever checks back on it."

"Fine. Then you have my permission."

Grace tried not to smile too excitedly as she watched Jurgen walk away. But her self-control didn't last very long. As soon as he'd disappeared around the corner, she clenched her fist, jerking her elbow backwards.

"Yesss!…"

She had yet to convince Viviana that trafficking in EC-10 was not nearly as dangerous as it sounded, but at that moment, Grace was rather optimistic she had found a way of being useful to her fellow sense offenders. 

**28**

"Firing positions…"

Facing a crumbling, overgrown brick wall, the captured offenders swallowed hard as the sound of twenty-four rifles being cocked momentarily broke the gloomy silence.

"Aim…"

Slowly inhaling their very last breaths, they looked at one another… some terrified, others desolate, most of them both. A few attempted to give their comrades a last, comforting smile, but they failed miserably. Had it all been in vain? 

"Fire!"

The bodies had barely touched the ground when they were being dragged away by a second team of sweepers. Simultaneously, the last group was immediately being set up for execution.

"Thank Father you discovered that old footpath, Cleric," said the sweeper captain as he secured his rifle. "This damned narrow passage was a death trap."

Partridge merely nodded as he watched the shooting. Little did the superintendent know that he had not 'discovered' the hidden winding trail that had led them around the gates, to where the rebels had barricaded themselves. They'd been on their way back to base camp when, out of the blue, he'd known it was there… _remembered _it existed. How that could be possible was beyond his understanding, and he reluctantly admitted to himself that it disturbed him. But now was not the time to brood. He was going to take care of this strange problem later. 

"It's done," Preston said with a pleased smile when the gunshots finally stopped. 

"Indeed." Partridge took one last look at the masses of corpses before turning to the commander. "Make sure the evidentiary team and the chemists collect all unlawful items, chemicals and weapons. My partner and I will return to the City at once." 

"Yes, sir."

Turning around, the two Clerics headed for their vehicle. Both of them had pushed themselves to the brink of complete exhaustion, and the prospect of rest was overwhelming. However, they'd only taken a few steps when a female's hysterical screams echoed around the plateau, and the sweeper captain called out again.

"Clerics! There's more."

Kicking, scratching, screeching and desperately trying to free herself, a young woman was being dragged out of one of the houses by two sweepers. Two other soldiers, each carrying a crying boy, were right behind them. It was hard tell the children's age for certain due to filthiness and malnutrition, but the older one appeared to be approximately three or four, whereas the younger one was barely a toddler. Wailing, whimpering and whinging, the youngsters added even more noise to their mother's clamor. 

"What do you want us to do with the children?" the captain asked Partridge as the woman was being pushed towards the brick wall. They rarely came across minors on raids. Offspring was too time-consuming and risky for the majority of sense offenders. 

"_Mummy! Nooooo!"_

_- "Close your eyes, Ro! Don't worry, darling. You'll be –' _

Partridge's jaw clenched momentarily when the briefest sequence of images flashed before his inner eye, and he did not answer right away.

"We'll take them back to the monastery and have them assessed," he eventually replied. 

"And the mother?"

"Kill her."

"Yes, Sir."

Signalling two shooters to prepare for the execution, the superintendent gestured towards the convoy of vehicles to where the children were to be brought.

"NO!"

The young woman's furious scream suddenly pierced the ears of those present, and before either Partridge, Preston, or anyone else fully realised what was going on, the mother had already stepped away from the wall and grabbed the spare gun of one of the nearby sweepers. But instead of aiming at one of the Clerics, she spun around and determinedly put a bullet through her older son's heart before taking a second shot at the youngest. 

"You're not taking my children!"

Staccato gunfire finished her off before she could do further harm. 

Shaking his head, Partridge turned around and walked away. 

**29**

Running his thumb and index finger along his chin, DuPont paused upon a particular paragraph of the _Operation Eden_ report, his eyebrows raised. Reading through it once more, his lips slowly twisted into a smirk.

'Interesting…'

**30**

In the vast gymnasium of the Hall of Precision, a solitary figure was training ardently in the bluish morning twilight. 

Partridge tried and tried to blank his mind as he ran through his katas, but he had trouble focusing on the routines that, over two decades of intense practise and application, had become a kind of instinct. His movements were flawless and fluent, as always, but they lacked vigour. His mind and body were meant to be one, but today the latter was on its own. The Cleric's thoughts were somewhere completely else.

The strangest thing of all was that Partridge felt an unknown surge of energy each time he rigorously pushed away the images that kept flashing before his inner eye. It seemed as though the harder he fought them, the more they were going to harass him. That force was counter-productive. It did not result in greater agility, strength or precision. Instead, he found his technique slacking up as accuracy gave way to… could it be aggression? 

He saw Grace on the day of her first dose, when she'd been just a toddler. She'd smiled and giggled as Helen prepared the PIU for her initial injection, as though it was going to be the happiest moment of her life. But she wasn't _supposed _to be excited about anything. He remembered telling her off to rid her features of that unacceptable countenance.

He also recalled the day of the bomb attack, when he'd picked up his injured daughter at the Equilibrium centre. She'd done a terrific job at keeping the immense physical pain to herself, but he remembered the inexplicable vague discomfort he'd felt seeing her like that. 

"_You're not taking my children!"_

It was as though he could still hear the thud from when the sweeper had simply dropped the dead boy right where he'd stood. 

"_Mummy! Nooooo!"_

And then there was the briefest flash of all – a young boy crying and screaming his lungs out as the person he loved most was killed before his very eyes. 

Gripping his shinai tighter, he made yet another attempt to clear his mind. 

'_Focus,' _he told himself. _'It does not matter.' _

This time, it finally seemed to work. Feeling the air travel through his body as he drew his breaths, Partridge fell into a trance. The patterns became perfectly fluid again, effortless to the intellect because they were rooted so deep in his consciousness, and beyond. He felt reassured to discover the return of his infallible self. But just as he came down from a difficult sidekick jump, gunshots echoed around his head again. Thrown off balance, he staggered momentarily as he landed. Releasing a sharp breath of frustration, he immediately attacked his imaginary opponent again. 

The harsh sound of two shinai clashing echoed throughout the gymnasium. 

"Always practising. Will you ever change, Errol?"

Holding DuPont's gaze, Partridge withdrew his weapon, repositioning himself to counter the high-aimed attack that he knew would come. 

"Unlike others…" he replied dryly as he changed into a rising block, obstructing the Vice Council's move, "I don't need to." 

Rotating the shinai around his wrist, he put his palm around the top end of the hilt, forcefully pushing forward. DuPont groaned when the tip hit him hard just below the hollow of his throat. He withdrew momentarily, only to gather his strength before engaging the older Cleric in aggressive, high-speed sparring.

"Something on your mind?" he grunted between the blasts. 

"What makes you think that?"

"The intuitive arts, Errol. Remember, it used to be my job to know what you're thinking. In fact…" Three quick strikes later, the men found their shinai interlocked between bodies, and themselves face to face with one another. "… I reckon it still is."

They exchanged a long look, neither of the two willing to back down. Realising they could barely fight in that entangled position, both eventually drew back simultaneously, getting their guard right back up.

"You tell me then, Gabriel," Partridge answered, unimpressed. "Something on my mind?"

"Indeed," DuPont hissed, attacking once more. "That path you happened to discover… and how you knew it was there." 

Striking one another almost at the same time, both groaned through clenched teeth as they reassumed the set position. 

"Am I right?"

"Partly," the Cleric replied, catching his breath. "But does it matter?"

"You're right." 

Chuckling dryly, the Vice Council lowered his weapon. Shrugging, he began to circle his opponent. Partridge's eyes never left him. 

"The ends justify the means, don't they? They always have. What are a few casualties if you win in the end? We could have crushed that independence movement in the Nethers single-handedly, you and I."

Partridge wasn't sure where his former partner was going, and why. Ten years ago, they had lost many capable men on their first major mission because of _his _obstinacy and overestimation of what was possible. Now he was accusing him of a _lack_ of losses, which made absolutely no sense at all. He realised he was being tested for some sort of reaction. 

"No, we couldn't have," he retorted. "I would think the outcome was proof enough."

DuPont snorted. "Doesn't it bother you that it was your fault? That you did not cover me? I must say you did not take very good care of your partner. "

Blocking his swift attack just in time, Partridge shook his head. Taking on two dozen experienced shooters all on one's own – not just a bunch of sense offenders with weapons - was a risk not to be taken lightly, not even for a Cleric. He'd advised him not to do it, but he hadn't listened. The spinal injury had taken a long time to heal, and even with intense training, DuPont had never fully regained his skills. Partridge knew he'd always blamed him for this. 

"You were First Class," he panted as they chased one another around the extensive room. "You wouldn't have been if you'd needed looking after."

With their weapons once again caught between the other's bodies, both withdrew.

"Besides…" Partridge added as he turned to leave. A little bit longer, and he was sure could have defeated him. But he considered it prudent not to do so. "… I don't think your career suffered too much in the long run, did it?" 

DuPont did not reply as he watched his old partner walk away. He merely smiled to himself.

**31**

Shivering, Grace wrapped her clammy fingers around a cup of English breakfast tea. The return of warmth to her limbs came as a tingling sting that was a little painful, and she momentarily ground her teeth to stifle a groan. Finally, the discomfort receded, and she raised the mug to her lips, taking a careful sip of the hot drink. Winter wasn't quite here yet, but it had made a rather unmistakable announcement of its impending arrival this morning. 

Just then, Viviana called out from the kitchen. 

"It's ready. Close your eyes, I'm coming in!"

"Why are you being so secretive?" Grace chuckled as she leaned back in her chair, doing as she'd been told. 

"Because that's the point of a surprise, dear," her friend replied as she entered the room. "Just wait, you'll find out in a second."

Grace sniffed repeatedly when she breathed in a delicious aroma. It was unlike anything she knew, and she began to squirm in her seat as she listened to Viviana arranging whatever she'd made. She recognised the sound and smell of matches being lit, and even through closed lids she could make out several little sources of light. 

"Come _on_, what is it?" 

"Alright, you can look now."

Opening her eyes Grace blinked a few times. At first all the candles on the dining table that formed a big '18' blinded her. Once she'd gotten used to it, her eyes widened. In front of her was a round, brownish clod that looked a little bit like bread, but smelled differently. 

"Happy Birthday, honey!" Viviana beamed. "I know the cake looks a bit… deformed, and I cannot guarantee it won't give you an upset stomach. Mind you, I've never baked before, so bear with me."

It took Grace a little while to find her voice. She'd briefly learned about birthdays and similar customs from the old days at school, but she never would have thought she'd ever be celebrating one. Not even after she'd become a sense offender had the thought crossed her mind. What was the point? She hadn't imagined anyone would ever really care all that much about her and the fact that she was alive – until now. 

"Thank you," she whispered as tears began to form behind her eyes. "Thank you so much."

Viviana pulled her into a hug, squeezing her gently. "I'd have gotten you a present, too, but I reckoned it would be safer not to. I couldn't think of anything you'd want that wouldn't be illegal." 

"Don't be ridiculous," Grace laughed breathily as she pulled back, wiping her tears away. "This is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me. Actually, I think it's the only nice thing anyone's ever done for me."

"Well, I'm glad I could do you a favour," Viviana smiled. "Do you want to try it?"

"Sure."

Watching her as she cut a slice from the cake, Grace bit her lip, thinking. Then she hesitantly said, "Speaking of favours… I need to ask you one."

**32**

"Do come in, Sir," the physician said as he scanned Partridge's medicard. Taking a look at his patient's health record on the computer screen, he asked, "You're here to have your constitution reassessed, is that correct?"

Closing the door behind him, the Cleric nodded. "I wish to have my dose adjusted." 


	6. Chapter 6

**33**

"Libria, a new day awaits you. A new day of unity. A new day of freedom. A new day of peace. ..."

Father was omnipresent within the city walls even before the watery sun had fully ascended the ashen morning sky. With his face on every public telescreen, on the surveillance zeppelins that hovered above the CBD, and on countless private viewing sets, it was impossible to avoid his message. Even for a true sense offender, it was hard to shield one's mind against the constant, subtle indoctrination. 

Grace tried to focus on counting her steps and breathing regularly as she adjusted the speed of her treadmill. It had been weeks since she'd last run, and as much as she hated to admit it, she was out of shape. Not that she had gained a noticeable amount of weight. That would hint at emotional instability and subsequent food abuse, and take her straight to the furnaces. However, her stamina had suffered greatly during her involuntary break from regular exercise. Now that the doctors had given the final all clear, she had to start all over again. Grinding her teeth, she soon had to slow down, but forced herself to at least keep going. There was only one way of regaining her previous level of fitness and strength, and that was to keep pushing herself without mercy. The trouble about being a sense offender was that suddenly she didn't _feel_ like running for an hour every day at all. But it was her lawful duty to be a healthy citizen. 

Also, she desperately needed to clear her head. 

Her ordeal had a name and an annoyingly handsome face that tended to manifest itself before her inner eye at the worst of times. Grace did not understand it. Following her own logic, she was supposed to _hate _Julian Dawes. He was a terrorist. A genuinely repenting one, she had to give him that. Still, he had killed her mother. He'd almost killed _her_, too. Wasn't it insane to feel anything for him except utter contempt? Her common sense was not amused. 

Perhaps her faith and pride in rationality were flawed. As she thought about the seemingly absurd turn her feelings had taken, she wondered if emotion wasn't in fact _meant _to suspend reason when necessary. Because besides eradicating emotion altogether, undeserved forgiveness was the only way to stop violence and suffering. To overcome hatred and revenge, one had to cut ties with logic, not follow it. 

'_My only love sprung from my only hate. ...'_

She'd find her thoughts straying during class, when doing her homework, during exercise, when she got up in the morning, at night before she went to sleep... _all the bloody time!_ Recently, she'd even started dreaming of him. There was something about the look in his eyes when he said hello that made her cheeks flush, and a wink or a smile would cause a tingling sensation in her stomach. She'd vowed not to speak to him so many times, and yet she'd repeatedly ended up doing exactly that. He always caught her with the play. A casual question about how far she'd read would lead to a more detailed discussion of a certain scene, and eventually the topic of the conversation would change. They'd talk about how their days had been, about their families, about what they enjoyed and loathed, their dreams, and their hopes for a free Libria. 

"So what's the first thing you'll do when we're officially allowed to feel?" she'd asked him just the other day. 

He'd only smiled at her then, the look in his eyes full of intent. She'd frowned at first, unsure how to feel about this. His expression had hinted at so many things of which she had little or no idea. Of course she knew the definitions of strong and important sentiments such as love from the illegal dictionaries that she had secretly studied, but to her they were nothing but empty words. She might as well have tried to read and comprehend a text written in a foreign language. 

But then Julian had brushed a strand of hair out of her face, slowly and gently, never taking his eyes off her, and that brief and tender touch had been earth shattering. She'd found it strange and confusing enough that merely being near him had always caused her heart rate to quadruple and made her feel as though she had swallowed an ant hill. So when the warm, prickling tremors started doing somersaults inside her, she suddenly knew. Love was the child of affection and desire. The first of these two she had come to feel and somewhat understand as her emotional range matured and her friendship with Viviana blossomed. The other, however, had just awoken. 

Shaking her head, Grace tried to push the memory away. She knew she couldn't allow those feelings for Julian to consume her. Nothing more had happened that day, but she was certain once she'd consent to a physical relationship, the passions would cloud her mind, impair her judgement, and sooner or later she'd make a fatal mistake. 

When someone got on the treadmill next to her, she turned her head just a little, fleetingly glancing at her neighbour. Viviana's eyes met hers for the briefest moment, and her nod was quick and subtle. 

Half an hour later, Grace was more than happy to get off the treadmill. Wiping the sweat off her face with a small towel, she headed for the changing rooms. She showered and dressed quickly, blow drying her hair and putting it up in the usual bun. Looking every bit the aspiring Administrator that she was supposed to be, she took her bag and made her way towards the exit. On her way out, she stopped at locker number #76. It wasn't hers, but besides Viviana she was the only one who knew that. Making sure she was alone, she pulled her swipe card through the small apparatus next to it. The lock opened with a faint click. 

Their plan was basically foolproof. With the help of a technophile fellow sense offender, it had been tricky, but not impossible, to tweak the microchip in a way that made her card a universal key. Instead of only opening her own locker, she was now able to access whichever one she wanted. With the changing rooms being among the very few public places that weren't under CCTV surveillance, this was probably one of the safest spots to use for trafficking when nobody else was there. It certainly was the least suspicious, because Librian law _required_ both her and Viviana to be here. And conveniently, their workouts happened to be at around the same hour three times a week. 

Three novels made a quick transition from Viviana's bag to her own, then she closed the locker again, and the next moment Grace was out the door. The biggest risk that she had to put up with was the random bag checks on Freedom Plaza. The acolytes could pick anyone out of the crowd to be pulled over. She kept telling herself that she had it all under control, that security would not touch a member of the elite unless that person would behave very strangely, but she _was _nervous, and you could never be quite sure. 

The safest option was to get rid of the books again as soon as possible, hence this morning's detour to Freedom Reading Room. She arrived just at the opening time, handing her copies of 'Concerning Religion' and 'About Philosophy' back to the proprietor once admitted. They exchanged a meaningful glance, and when Grace specifically asked for a copy of The Insensitive, the man beckoned her to follow him. 

**34**

"You can't do this! You _cannot _do this!"

For a moment, it almost seemed as though the cornered sense offender was going to grab Partridge's sleeve to personally try and prevent him from entering the apartment. She was a young woman in her mid twenties whose short brown hair was a mess of wild curls. Indignation had caused her cheeks to flush, her green eyes blazing because of this outrage, and her hand instinctively jerked forward to stop the intruder. But then she realised who she was dealing with, and quickly withdrew. 

"Tetragrammaton," Partridge replied, unimpressed and completely calm, as he stepped over the remains of the shattered font door. He caught her wrist mid-air, twisting her arm and thereby forcing her to turn around and face the wall. "There's nothing we can't do."

He called in two sweepers with a beckoning movement of his hand. The woman half-heartedly fought back as the soldiers put handcuffs on her, but she knew she didn't have a chance. Also, part of her wanted to exit with whatever little dignity she still possessed. Leaving the impromptu interrogation to his younger partner, Partridge then slowly made his way down the corridor, in search of illegal items. 

"Nadine Ceder," Preston read her name from the search warrant as he entered the apartment. According to the fact sheet, she was a third class citizen, and unmarried. "You've been reported to have cried in public yesterday at 6:23pm." 

"Reported?" she snorted bitterly. "By whom?" 

"You are hereby arrested under the suspicion of sense offence," the young Cleric informed her without answering her question. "We will search your premises, and you will be taken to the Palace of Justice for processing."

"Processing my arse," she chuckled dryly. "Why don't you just shoot me now and save yourself the trouble?"

"Do you live here by yourself?" Preston asked, ignoring her sarcastic remarks.

Glaring, the woman did not reply. 

"How long have you been off the dose?" 

She wouldn't answer. 

"Who else do you know who has ceased their interval?"

"Screw you."

Shrugging lightly, Preston ended the conversation right there and signalled the sweepers to take her away. He wasn't going to waste his time. Whatever she had to hide, they would find out anyway, whether she chose to cooperate or not. Sooner or later, all offenders cracked during clinical interrogation. 

Partridge, in the meantime, had arrived at the woman's bedroom door. He'd gone through his usual methods of detecting hidden stashes of EC-10, but so far the tiny unit appeared to be clear. There was no unused Prozium in the bathroom, and, as far as he could tell, there were no secret rooms either. However, years of experience had taught him that there was no smoke without fire. He and Preston had yet to go on an unsuccessful raid. 

Entering the small bedchamber, he quickly scanned the room. At first sight it was as Spartan as it should be. As he searched the drawers of the humble wardrobe, he found nothing. But when he opened the drawer of the nightstand, a framed photograph was looking back at him. Picking it up, he inspected the picture more closely. He wouldn't usually care about detailed content of illegal material. That was the evidentiary team's job. But he had a good memory when it came to faces, and it was thus possible, albeit not extremely likely, that he knew the person at least from afar. 

The colours of the image had somewhat faded, as it had been bleached by daylight over the course of a few decades. It showed a man of roughly the same age as himself. He wore a commander's uniform, and he seemed to be looking right back at whoever was viewing the photograph with an intensity that was hard to ignore. Somehow it felt like a mirror. A passionate mirror. 

Inexplicably, Partridge was mesmerised. He just stared… and stared. 

The man looked disturbingly familiar. The longer he looked at the portrait, the more the Cleric felt as though he was scratching at the surface of a profound memory. Why he'd want to be doing such a thing at all he wasn't sure. Perhaps because the last time he'd allowed a vague fragment of cognition to make the transition from a ghost of the mind to conscious, they had successfully completed an important mission. But recognition wouldn't quite set in this time. Whether that was a bad thing, he wasn't so sure. He'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about the possible origins of those rather unsettling flashes of what appeared to be childhood memories. The only logical explanation he could come up with for this kind of déjà vu was that he'd been there before, had been through it before. But that was just downright impossible. He knew who his parents were. Respectable Librian citizens, as they should be. 

Putting the picture aside, Partridge then became aware of an agenda-type little black book. As he reached for it, a stack of old Polaroids fell out of it and to the floor. Squatting down, the Cleric picked them up to take a closer look at them also. 

The first one showed a young couple in a lush green park on a sunny day, against the backdrop of an arc of Roman pillars. Glancing at the framed photograph again, he realised it was the same man in both pictures. He seemed younger in the outdoor shot, and Partridge assumed that it had been taken before the War. The woman at his side was young and seemed healthy, and both were dressed in the contemporary fashion. 

Another picture had captured an apparently merry moment of four elderly people - two couples, it appeared - on a couch in someone's living-room. After a few moments of observation, Partridge detected a resemblance between one of the older men and the young soldier and husband. He concluded they could be father and son. 

The remaining two images were of children. In the first one of the two, three boys were assembled in front of a house, dressed up in brown uniforms to have their picture taken. The youngest was a toddler, looking small between the other two on his short, O-shaped legs. His supposed brothers were maybe three to five years older respectively. In the other, the same toddler - now a bit older - was standing in front of a Christmas tree, grinning widely. 

Turning it over, Partridge stopped when he read the handwritten annotation on the back of the photograph.

_Anno Libriae 1_

_Ro's first Christmas tree_

Partridge did not move as his mind descended into an unsettling discrepancy between what he was being led to believe and what he was so convinced couldn't be possible. This time there were no flashes, no images, but he recalled a sense of security and companionship, of support and stability – the same values that were nowadays attributed to Prozium. 

"Did you find anything?"

He looked up when Preston appeared in the doorway, not exactly startled, but the fact that he hadn't heard his partner approach felt a bit odd. 

"Only a few pictures," he answered, getting back up and holding them up for him to see. "And this appears to be a journal of some sort." 

Preston came a little closer, glancing at the material. 

"I have just asked for the evidentiary team to be sent in," he then said, taking a look around the chamber. "Why don't you leave it for them?"

Partridge hesitated but a second, then nodded, almost to himself. "Yes, of course." 

Tossing the items onto the bed, he left the room together with Preston. 

He made a mental note to get in touch with the Palace of Justice as soon as possible to arrange an immediate interrogation of Nadine Ceder.

He wanted to know who these people were. 

**35**

**Anno Libriae 1**

"Dad?"

David Ceder looked up from his evening issue of _Emancipia_, smiling gently when he saw his ten-year-old son Jamie standing in the doorway. 

"Yes?"

"Do you have a moment?"

Putting the bad news aside for a moment, Ceder nodded. He'd been busy and thus hadn't talked to his eldest for a few days, and from the look on his face he could tell that Jamie wanted something. 

"Sure. What's up, champ?"

The boy hesitated, chewing on his bottom lip before entering the room. Behind his back, he had interlocked the fingers of both his hands, fidgeting nervously.

"Dad, can I join -"

"No."

His father's harsh reply cut him off before he had even finished half of his sentence. It was just one short word, but Ceder's tone of voice carried a hidden anger that his young son could not understand.

"Why not?" Jamie asked, pouting a little. "They do fun things, like play sports together, or help rebuild our city. And with school on indefinite hiatus, it's the only place where you get to read any books."

"I know that."

"Then why can't I be a member?"

His father heaved a sigh. "Jay, it's complicated."

"Then why don't you explain it to me?" Now it was the boy's turn to get angry. "You always say it's complicated, and you always say no. But you never tell me why. All the other kids are making fun of me because I'm the only one in the street who's not with Young Libria."

"You shouldn't care what the other kids think."

"But I do! And I want an answer." Folding his arms, Jamie stared at his father. "Why not?" 

David sighed. "Alright. You know who Hitler was, don't you?"

He nodded. "Of course. You taught me all about history."

"Then I'm sure you'll remember how he indoctrinated the young Germans."

Again, Jamie's confirmed his father's words. "Yes. All boys and girls had to join the Hitler Youth."

"That's right. To make sure nobody would rise against the government, they started poisoning young children's minds. And that's why you will not join Young Libria."

Jamie blinked, looking rather confused. "But… Charles Goodman isn't evil. His own son is a member as well. I've spoken to Ernest, he's so nice…"

David shook his head. "Your mother and I need you to stay home and look after Tommy and Errol while we go to work."

"Oh dad! Tommy's nearly eight, he can look after himself. And Ro-"

"The answer is no, Jamie. Go to bed."

"But-"

"_Now._"

Hanging his head, the boy went. He was frustrated, not understanding why his father would stop him from being part of the crowd. It just didn't seem fair. 

**Anno Libriae 2**

"… and since Charles Goodman got us and the rest of the world into this mess, I wonder, why should we listen to anything he says ever again?" 

The crowd roared as David Ceder thrust his fist into the air, showing his passion for freedom plainly for everyone to see. He knew that it was very likely that Goodman's men were here, and he was painfully aware that this public speech was probably going to be his last, even if he wouldn't get arrested or killed. But that wouldn't stop him, not as long as he still had a voice to raise and breath in his lungs. They'd have to put a bullet through his heart to shut him up. 

"Goodman has broken every single one of his promises," he continued heatedly. "At first he vowed that the freedom of speech and our personal freedom would not be touched, no matter what. Six months later there was severe censorship, in every aspect of life. Then he assured us that Prozium was entirely voluntary. Now he and the Council have basically decided that it will be compulsory. I'm asking you, what's next? The death penalty for anyone who refuses to inject himself with the same drug that turned hundreds of thousands of soldiers into zombies during the war? Goodman started that War by dehumanising an entire country. _And now he's trying to do the same to us_!"

Within a split second, the small square strongly resembled a pot of water that was about to boil over. The noise was deafening as hundreds of men, women and children shouted, booed, whistled and cried. It took a good five minutes or so before Ceder was able to carry on with his speech. 

"Unfortunately, I don't know if we can stop him anymore," he said. "But think of Hitler. For a while, it looked as though he would rule the world. And mostly, it seemed as though nobody had the heart to do anything about it. But remember Stauffenberg. Remember the White Rose. Remember all those who would not be silent. If freedom falters at the prospect of tyranny, we must resist. We _will _resist! _We_ are Libria, and we will not-"

The gunshot that put and end to David Ceder's life would echo in the heads of these people for years… and the most courageous among them were going to take his words quite literally. 

**Anno Libriae 3 **

"Mummy! Nooooo!"

He was barely five years old, but Errol Ceder knew that he would not see his mother again. Crying so much that his vision was turning blurry, he struggled against the soldier who held him, but it was all in vain. 

"Close your eyes, Ro!"

Amy Ceder forced herself to stay calm and keep smiling as the sweepers pushed and dragged her towards a brick wall to execute her. After her husband had been killed, and after she had lost twelve-year-old Jamie to the propaganda, she and her two youngest boys had sought refuge with the rebels in the mountains. Their hideouts had been safe until the Tetragrammaton had started a major offensive to find and slaughter them. She wanted to scream, but she didn't want her grievous face to be the last thing that her little son would see of her. 

"Don't worry, darling…"

She hated the very thought of her son growing up in the monastery of the Tetragrammaton, but at least he would live. It broke her heart to watch him being carried away, but she kept telling herself that maybe he would be different. Perhaps he wouldn't be enslaved by the system forever. Errol would break out and put things right…

"You'll be –'"

And then the bullet entered her brain. 

**3****6**

"But you said you'd let him go!"

Tears were streaming down Nadine Ceder's face as the Vice Council's bodyguards seized her and dragged her towards the door. 

"You said he'd go free!"

DuPont chuckled to himself. "I said I'll see what I can do. But unfortunately we had reasons to believe that your brother wasn't just a private offender, such as yourself."

"That's not true! Cameron's not-"

"With the resistance? Can you prove it, sweetheart?"

"No, but-"

"Thought so. But well, seeing how he's already ashes, it wouldn't matter anyway, would it now?" 

"You _bastard!" _she howled, her face distorted in grief and anger. "You had him taken to the furnaces before I even consented to do this! You liar! You promised not to harm him!"

"I guess I changed my mind."

DuPont merely shrugged as his hysterical mistress was being taken away. What a waste. She'd been a damn good woman to have before her brother's stupidity had caused her to turn against him. But she wasn't of any significance to him. Why get so upset when she was to join her brother soon? However, he did acknowledge that blood was thicker than water, which was why it was a good thing Nadine hadn't known she was setting up her own uncle. Those family ties had been cut when young Errol had been adopted by John and Anna Partridge a few weeks after entering the monastery. His plan had worked out just fine. He only needed to sit back and wait for doubt and curiosity to poison his old friend's mind.

Father's private files did come in very handy at times. 


	7. Chapter 7

**37**

"Grammaton Cleric Errol Partridge."

He showed his ID to the receptionist. "I'm here to speak to Nadine Ceder."

The young technician frowned softly as he looked down at his touch screen, reading through the list of prisoners currently housed at the Palace of Justice, and their status. "Sir, she has already confessed. Her execution is set for tomorrow morning."

Partridge nodded. "That's correct, but she may have additional valuable information. I need to question her once more."

"I see." The young man tapped the surface a few times, changing it to the overview of the interrogation rooms. "Sir, I'm afraid all the cells are in use right now."

Taking a step closer, Partridge glanced at the screen. "What about that one? Number two."

The receptionist shook his head. "The audio is broken in there. We won't be able to record the conversation for evaluation purposes."

"That doesn't matter. I've got a good memory. Put us in there," the Cleric requested.

"But Sir, according to protocol-"

"This is an order."

"Yes, of course."

Not daring to argue with Libria's highest ranking Cleric, the young man obeyed him without further ado. Pressing buttons here and there, he looked up again after a moment, nodding his head. "All set. I'll tell the guards to bring her in."

"Thank you."

The sliding entrance doors opened, and Partridge started walking down the main corridor towards the south end of the building, which had been designed for questioning. As he moved, he recalled the information he had. According to the files he'd obtained from the Department for Health and Family Planning and the citizen directory, Nadine Ceder's ancestry was of no significance. She descended from an ordinary third class family, and no other members had ever been charged with sense crimes. It looked as though she was the only black sheep, a regrettable exception to the rule.

The crux was that somehow his mind had been infected with doubt. He had no proof whatsoever that some things wouldn't add up, but he _knew _they didn't. Not long ago, he had acknowledged that it was perfectly normal not to have all possible answers to a question. If one solution solved the problem, why wonder about possible alternatives? But it was no longer enough.

He entered the interrogation room and took a seat. The cell block wasn't too far, but he'd have to wait for a moment. He'd been to this place many times; he knew every corner. The walls were soundproof, making the room itself a vacuum of silence. Partridge had seldom heard the sound of his own breath so clearly. Neither had he often been so very aware of how it travelled through his body before exiting again. All the while, his watch relentlessly ticked the seconds away.

Finally the doors opened with a swish, and a guard escorted Nadine Ceder into the room. She wore a simple grey linen dress; her curls cascaded freely down the sides of her face. Her expression wasn't easy to identify. Partridge detected signs of annoyance and boredom, but there were also traces of sadness and anger. Sitting down opposite him, she interlaced her fingers, resting her hands on the table. Without ever looking up, she lowered her gaze, staring into her nothingness.

"Let me know if there's any trouble," the guard said before he exited.

"I will," Partridge nodded.

When they were alone, he looked over at the young offender. "This won't take long."

" 'course not," she snorted. "Didn't you get the memo? I'm guilty as charged, and I'm not gonna deny it. So go home. You're wasting your time."

"There's something I'm curious about that was omitted in the transcript of your confession," said the Cleric, ignoring her remark. "I want to know about the photographs that were found in your apartment."

He paused for a moment, giving her the opportunity to reply. If she really had nothing left to lose, she had no reason not to talk. But she didn't say anything.

"Who are the people in the pictures?" he then asked.

Folding her arms, Nadine Ceder stubbornly kept quiet. She turned her head, biting her bottom lip as she stared at the opposite wall.

"Who are the people in the pictures?" Partridge kept at it. He could tell the young woman was still keeping a secret or two.

"You tell me now," he demanded, his voice stern and cold, "or I'll have you taken to the laboratories for clinical interrogation."

That was when she turned her head, looking right at him. "Do you believe in Libria?" she wanted to know with a sincerity that stunned him. "Do you have faith in Father and what he stands for?"

"Of course," he replied without hesitation, wondering what this was all about.

She chuckled at his answer, but it wasn't amusement. Her entire body language spelled grief and a kind of bitter irony. Shaking her head, she gave him a sad smile. "Then you don't want to know. Trust me."

Partridge didn't move for a moment. He'd frozen, thinking he must not have heard her correctly. But the meaning of her words stayed the same, no matter how many times he replayed the tape in his mind. What on earth was she talking about? And what madness made her think he'd trust her? She probably wasn't sincere at all. If anything, she had to be a great actress, and she was trying to trick him.

"Answer me," he urged her grimly. "Who are the people in the pictures?"

Nadine Ceder hid her face behind her hands this time, letting out a frustrated sigh.

"Don't you realise what's going on?" she almost cried. "You're walking right into a trap. Forget this. Forget me and those stupid pictures. Get on with your life and just let things be. Or else you'll soon be right where I am now."

The high Prozium levels in his blood intercepted and silenced whatever strange sentiment stirred inside him just then. Partridge had ever experienced anything like it, and the fact that he was at a loss for words confused him. What was all this? What kind of game was she playing? And why was he falling for it? He failed to decide whether she was simply a brilliant liar or whether she was indeed trying to save him from this vague mystery she wouldn't explain.

"Tell me," he demanded one last time, his voice dangerously quiet.

Nadine Ceder bit her lip. Her knowledge, limited as it was, could do terrible things. Should she hold on to the lie she'd agreed to tell? She didn't feel bound by the arrangement anymore that she had made with the Vice Council. Finally, she cracked. Lowering her gaze, she sighed, then shook her head. "I don't know."

"You don't _know_?"

"No. Those photographs weren't mine. They were given to me, with the order to put them somewhere where you'd find them. I was told to give you a name and an address whenever you'd come here."

"What? But - ?"

"Look, I don't know who the people in those pictures are, but they seem to mean something to you, and that was the plan. You're being set up, and it's working. Unfortunately I don't know if breaking the deal is also part of Gabriel's plan, so… please, be careful."

Two pairs of emerald eyes locked, and for a moment or so time stood still. Partridge could almost feel how seemingly random thoughts suddenly came together, tempting him to jump to outrageous conclusions.

"_Mummy! Nooooo!"_

"_The intuitive arts, Errol…"_

"_We have been attacked. Father himself has been attacked. But Librians, we will not yield…"_

"_The ends justify the means, don't they?" _

Somehow, even in his reverie, he registered how Nadine Ceder slowly nodded.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I told you, you wouldn't want to know…"

She wanted to apologize for the damage she had done, but she never got a chance to do that. Before she could say another word, Partridge had left the room in a hurry.

**38**

Grace just wanted to die.

Her entire week had been nerve-wrecking so far, but this day in particular had been a disaster from start to finish. For reasons she didn't know, she'd slept terrible the night before. The hours between sunset and sunrise had passed her by within what seemed like a moment. It had felt as though she'd barely had time to close her eyes properly before she'd had to get up again. She'd woken with a subtle headache that she attributed to her constant lack of rest, and unfortunately it had gotten stronger and stronger during the morning. By the time she got to College, her head had been a throbbing mess. She'd sat through most of her classes without the slightest clue what was actually going on, and of course it had to be the one day when her Librian Law professor had randomly picked herfor a brief oral examination. She'd always done her homework, so her faithful autopilot had saved her by a hairsbreadth, but that hadn't made her feel any better. Ironically enough, she was angry with herself for the just-slightly-better-than-poor performance. She despised Libria and its propaganda, but a failure was still a failure. It was irrational, and she knew it, but the one big problem about being off the dose was that stupid little things like this could make her mood hit rock bottom.

She couldn't wait to get home. She needed to cry.

Leaning her forehead against the cool glass of the window as the train left the CBD and made its way towards Quarter One, she took a few slow, deep breaths. She was supposed to attend her scheduled evening session at the Hall of Exertion, but she just could not bring herself to do that. Not today. She wouldn't get in trouble for missing one. Everyone did once in a while, for various reasons.

Missing one workout wouldn't do her any harm.

**39**

Viviana glanced at her watch yet again, gritting her teeth so she wouldn't tap the floor with her foot, or display similar signs of nervousness. She'd delayed her departure from the Hall of Exertion for as long as possible, but it was way past their scheduled time now. Somehow she knew Grace wasn't just running late. It was terribly unsettling. Their book swapping had worked perfectly smooth for a week, so now that she wasn't showing, Viviana had a sinking feeling that it wouldn't be happening tonight.

'_I'm sure she has a good reason not to come_,' she thought, sighing softly to herself.

Finally, she gave up waiting and made her way towards the exit of the building. She needed to be home in time to work off her domestic duties before her husband and her children would arrive. There wasn't enough time to make it back to the evidentiary department. However, she wasn't going to risk taking the three illegal items that she currently had in her bag with her. That just spelled suicide. She had to get rid of those books somewhere.

**40**

"Yes?"

The technician looked up from the pile of paperwork on his desk when he heard a knock on the heavy door of the Hall of Audition. It was where any and every citizen could report suspicious persons at the Palace of Justice. The system worked rather well. In fact, the majority of sense offenders were caught not by Clerics but by vigilant neighbours, colleagues, or relatives.

An elderly, khaki-clad man entered the room, nodding briskly.

"I wish to report someone."

**41**

Viviana was folding her husband's freshly ironed black coat, slowly and precisely, like she always did on a Saturday morning. She loved the early hours, when the day was still young and yet untouched by tragedy. Working off her duties at this time of the day gave her the opportunity to recharge her batteries and prepare herself for the daily hardship that lay ahead. There was something about the simple deed of doing laundry that was soothing to her restless mind and relieving to her heavy heart. In a way, it had become a ritual for her. When the red stains were all gone, when it was just smooth black fabric beneath her fingertips, she loved to think that at least for now John's conscience was clear. Until the next raid, until the next time someone would die by his gun, she'd symbolically washed the blood off his hands. Sometimes when she was safely alone, she'd hold the jacket in her arms as though it was him instead of just a piece of clothing. No matter how many times she cleaned it, his scent lingered. And every once in a while, she wishfully daydreamed about everything she knew she could not have.

When she turned around to put the garments away, she accidentally dropped the belt. Even though it was only a brief, single sound, it almost resembled a miniature piece of music when the buckle hit the marble floor. Sighing softly to herself, Viviana bent down to pick it back up. It was only when she rose again that she realised John was standing at the other end of the corridor, watching her intently. He must have been on his way to the bathroom to take his morning dose. She didn't know what had made him stop in his tracks and look her way, but there he was. Their eyes met across the distance, locking, and for the very first time in her life she wasn't quite sure what to call the expression on his face. He wasn't smiling, but there was a latent softness in his eyes that she hadn't seen before. His focus was on her, completely, as if he'd never laid eyes on her until just then. She couldn't possibly tell what he was thinking, but her traitorous heart nonetheless swelled with love and adoration, reaching out for him because _she_ could not. Unaware of how the corners of her mouth curled upwards ever so slightly, she straightened up again, reluctantly lowering her gaze...

And then, without a warning, the fleeting dream turned into a very palpable nightmare.

The front door cracked around the hinges when the heavy boots of a sweeper collided with the thin wood, using brute force to kick it open. Viviana spun around, startled by the loud thud, and visibly cringed as she instinctively moved away. What in Father's name was going on?

"Viviana Preston!" the enforcer yelled as the other soldiers swarmed out to seize her. His words came like staccato gunfire. "Don't move! Don't move! Comply! Comply! Stop! Stop where you are! Get down!"

She was torn between her instincts that told her to run, and not being able to move because of the shock surprise. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a mistake! But before she could make up her mind, they'd grabbed her, forcing her hands behind her back to cuff her.

And then something extraordinary happened.

John, her John, rushed to her rescue. At first she wondered if she was imagining things, but as impossible as it seemed, it was real. He came running so fast that he got to the sweepers before they fully grasped what was happening. Her eyes widened as she watched him take them down one by one, brutally, effectively and so seemingly effortlessly, his facial expression grim and… could it be… protective?

"Don't shoot!" the enforcer shouted with a hint of panic in his voice when he suddenly found himself with his back against the wall, his own gun aimed at his throat. "This is a lawful entry," he hurriedly clarified. "We have a warrant for your wife's arrest. She's charged with sense offense!"

The silence that followed his revelation was just downright horrific. It was far more than just the absence of speech or sound. It was a moment completely suspended in time, so cold and sharp and heavy that it physically hurt.

Viviana froze, shaking her head over and over again as the words kept spinning in her head without ever making sense. Their meaning just wouldn't sink in. She was in a haze. This wasn't right. It couldn't be true! Had they found the books? She'd been so careful, who could possibly have seen her? Had they arrested Grace as well? This trafficking business had been her friend's idea, but they were coming for _her _instead. How was this fair? She felt tears forming behind her eyes, her pulse exploding as pure helplessness overtook her.

And then John slowly turned around, and the look on his face just broke her heart. She'd never seen such disbelief… such disappointment. Theoretically, John Preston was not able to be horrified, but this was as close as it could get. It hurt so much to see him like that; Viviana couldn't even cry. She felt cold inside, guilt and shame piercing her conscience. The moment she'd dreaded all these years had after all become a deadly reality.

'_John… oh John, please forgive me…I'm so sorry…'_

What about Robbie and Lisa? Would they be shunned by society now? Would they have to face being pointed at as _'those children'_ whose mother ceased her dose? Had she ruined their future? And what about John? Would he, too, be arrested for supposedly turning a blind eye? Would they believe him when he'd say he hadn't noticed anything? It wasn't just her own fate that tore Viviana apart. She knew for sure what would happen to her, and as much as she yearned to live, there now was a gloomy certainty about her destiny. But what about her loved ones? More than for her own life, she feared for her family.

It was all over now… there was no more hope, no more dreaming that maybe one day this Libria they knew would fall and they could be together the way they should be, as husband and wife. There no longer was a silver lining on the horizon, only darkness. She saw no more life, only death. She had gambled with everything she had, had risked all she possessed and held dear, and now she had to pay the price. The cold hands of regret reached out for her, treacherously poisoning her mind and almost making her wish she'd never ceased her dose in the first place…

But her heart was beating so furiously, and even as it drowned in pain and sorrow it refused to change its mind about anything. The only real regret she had was that she'd never been allowed or able to show John how much she loved him. It would have meant her death, but now that she was going to the furnaces anyway, there was nothing left to hold her back.

Breaking free from the sweepers that were holding her, Viviana leaped, closing the distance between her and John before anyone could stop her. It felt like slow motion as she raised her hands to his cheeks, gently cupping his handsome face between her palms, rising up to press her mouth against his beautifully warm, incredibly soft, and painfully unresponsive lips. She felt how he froze beneath her touch, confused and offended, but she didn't blame him. It was only a moment, but she desperately hoped that maybe one day he'd recall it with a bittersweet smile.

"Remember me," she gasped when the sweepers forcefully tore her away from him, really meaning 'I love you.' But he wouldn't have known what it meant.

Not yet.

**42**

"Confiscated evidence X-13-T36. Nadine Ceder."

Partridge waited patiently as the evidentiary officer turned around to obtain the requested box from the long shelves of the archives. On the outside the Cleric was calm, but the truth was that the cold hands of nervousness had started to reach out for him. Combined with the eerie shadows of doubt that had attached themselves to his every thought since he'd remembered the old mountain footpath, his state of mind was – for the lack of a better word - critical. It had been just this morning when it had occurred to him that he might be under-medicated. Not by accident – on purpose. He had asked to have his dose adjusted after _Operation Eden_, and he had naturally assumed his new intervals were going to be more concentrated. But that had been before he had found out that apparently he was part of a cat-and-mouse game whose rules he could only guess.

"Here you are, Sir," the young man said as he slid the metal cube across the counter. He was going to add something when his superior called out to him. "Excuse me."

Partridge acted quickly. He knew where the surveillance camera was, and he also knew that right at this moment, the CCTV crew would only see his back turned towards them in case anyone was watching. The four photographs made a quick transition from the box into the inside pocket of his coat, and when the officer came back a few moments later, the Cleric calmly returned the evidence. Since Nadine Ceder's incineration had gone through ten minutes ago, her file would be deleted and the remains of her illegal personal belongings be destroyed by this evening. Only important data was ever archived. Of course, borrowing the photographs without authorization meant he was taking a risk. But strangely enough he was alright with that.

Turning around, Partridge left the evidentiary department.

There was something he wanted to find out.

**43**

"Viviana Preston…"

The interrogator's voice was sharp and unforgiving, causing her to shiver inside. She'd wrapped her arms around herself as if to shield her mind and body from the cruelties that were to come, but she wasn't surprised that her usual defence mechanisms weren't working. The man had started to walk around slowly, obviously well aware that each step he took in the silent interrogation room sounded like a gunshot. There was a reason why clinical interrogation, with or without drugs, never failed. There just was no hope in this place. Once in here, there was no salvation. Not one prisoner, guilty or innocent, had ever made it back.

"Do you deny to have ceased your dose contrary to Librian laws? Do you deny to have stolen illegal literary items from the evidentiary department?"

Viviana lowered her head as she closed her eyes, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry. She felt so helpless, so furious, but her pride forbade her to succumb to hysteria. She wasn't going to grant them the pleasure of having destroyed another human being. They could burn her, but she wouldn't allow them to rob her of her dignity.

"Do you deny it?" he repeated urgently, standing right behind her.

She sighed, desperately trying to master the chaos that was her mind. Her thoughts were flailing around without aim or purpose, which made her feel slow and dizzy. She felt a cold, subtle pain in her stomach, caused by all those questions and worries over which she had no control. And if all that wasn't nerve-wrecking enough, she found herself drifting from extreme self-pity to sheer anger and back within seconds.

'_Why me?' _she thought. _'Why me, and not Grace? It's not fair. I shouldn't have to die for this. It was her idea. I didn't want anything to do with the resistance. But I didn't want to let down the only friend I ever had. And how does she repay me? I should have known that I couldn't trust her. Who knows, maybe she set me up on purpose? After all, she is the daughter of Libria's highest ranking Cleric, an aspiring administrator, and…'_

When she suddenly realised what directions her thoughts were taking, she shivered inside. A wave of shame and disgust towards her traitorous mind washed over her, and she felt tears rallying around her eyes. She realised that she was about to succumb to a downward emotional spiral, a process that would make her curse and condemn those she held dear until she'd get to a point where she'd wish they'd never existed. It was a coping mechanism, a feeble attempt to deter the cold, numbing fear and loss and the injustice that she felt, replacing it with anger and hatred…

'_What am I thinking?' _she slowly shook her head, sighing inwardly._ 'Grace would never ever have set me up. Something must have happened. What if…? No. She's been doing so well…'_

"Do you confess then?" the interrogator pressured her in a menacing tone of voice.

Viviana winced. She'd completely forgotten about him for a moment as her worries shifted. Now she couldn't help but feel anxious about Grace. Had they arrested her, too? Did they know she was involved? Groaning, she bit her bottom lip, clenching her eyes shut. Chances were Grace was free, unaware of the fatal turn her plan had taken. And if that was the case, she was in a position where she could decide her friend's fate.

'_If I don't tell them she was involved in this, they might never know…'_

She was sad, shocked and ashamed that the spiteful part of her was teasing and tempting her to report Grace.

'_She sent you to your death. Why not return the favour?' _a mean, little voice whispered. It made sense, such hateful, perfect sense. The bitter taste of it brought her to the very edge of feeling physically sick, until eventually she cracked. A low, inhuman sob escaped her mouth, echoing in the sterile chamber, and causing her slender frame to shake.

"Yes, I confess," she cried before she'd change her mind. "I ceased my dose. I stole the books. Yes, I'm guilty."

"Who are your accomplices?"

Crying silently, Viviana shook her head. "I don't have any accomplices. I took the books for my private… pleasure."

"And why did you throw them away?"

She felt his piercing gaze on her, and she squirmed. "I… I had to attend my scheduled exercise at the Hall of Exertion. After that, I…I realized my husband would already be home, so… I considered it too risky to take the books with me."

It wasn't really a lie, but it wasn't exactly the truth either. For some stupid reason, Viviana found herself looking up at the man, their eyes interlocking for a moment or two. She could tell he was assessing her, trying to read her and determine whether she was telling the truth or not. When he looked away again and barely nodded, she felt a strange, brief relief.

He'd bought it.

"Your incineration is scheduled for 9am tomorrow morning," he then informed her, brutally and laconically. Then he beckoned the guards. "Take her away."

By the time the guards seized her, Viviana had gone completely numb. She felt empty and unspeakably lonely, but at least now she really didn't have anything left to lose.

In 22 hours, she'd be dead.


	8. Chapter 8

**44**

Grace was about to leave for Freedom Reading Room when the phone rang. She stopped in the doorway, wondering for the briefest moment whether or not she should answer it. It was high time for her to go, but phone calls in Libria were never made without a purpose. This call had to be of importance. So she shut the front door again and strode back to the living-room.

She picked up the phone. "Hello?"

Over the past few weeks, she'd worked tirelessly on refining her fake toneless voice to perfection. It was all about getting into the right mindset. Her method was to think of something so insignificant that any undertone would die a natural death before the words could leave her mouth. This also applied to the expressionless face she had to wear during the day. She'd realised in the very early stages of her awakening that letting your thoughts wander meant treading on thin ice. Whenever one's actions ceased to be completely conscious, clarity gave way to ambiguity, and ambiguous actions that might be interpreted as emotional were fatal. To channel the tension she carried within herself, she needed two things. The first was complete awareness of her constant perturbation. The second was a foolproof way to deal with any sort of inner turmoil. She had recently acquired a copy of Seneca's _De Tranquilitate Animi, _and she had since tried to stay clear of all sorts of affects. It worked better and better the more she practised, but it was a slow, painful process. She still struggled through her days, terrified of being found out, hoping and praying that her status and privileges would be enough to protect her until she'd have herself under complete control. Prozium without Prozium – that was her ultimate goal.

"This is John Preston."

"Cleric." Even though he couldn't see her, Grace straightened up. Posture, so she knew, could easily influence the tone of voice. "What can I do for you?"

"Is Partridge there?"

Grace failed to put a finger on it, but Preston sounded… strange, for the lack of a better word. She couldn't explain it, but her radar had picked up on a very faint undertone that she couldn't quite place. Perhaps this was the one advantage about being a sense offender – the ability to just _sense_ things that would escape a purely rational mind. But it was also dangerous; she knew she was playing a game of Russian roulette about being right or wrong.

"No," she replied. "He left for the City earlier this morning."

She couldn't help but suspect something was going on. Over the six years that he'd been her father's apprentice, Preston had only ever called their household about very urgent matters. Grace knew very well that it was none of her business, and that it would be suicidal to ask about Clerical affairs that didn't concern her. Still, she had to give it some sort of innocuous try.

"May I take a message?" was as far as she could go without causing suspicion.

On the other end of the line, Preston released a slow, quiet breath that told her he was thinking. Grace bit her bottom lip, careful not to make any kind of sound that could give her away.

"Never mind," he replied after a moment. "I'll message his communicator and ask him to meet me at the Headquarters to attend the hearing."

He then hung up without saying another word, and Grace was left with a cold and sudden fear in her stomach.

'_What hearing?'_

**45**

"Cleric."

James Ceder was a tall, skinny man in his late forties who had rarely left his house for a few years now due to a bad back. He lived alone on the outer edge of the Inner City, in a tiny one bedroom apartment whose window had long stopped letting any sunlight through.

"What can I do for you?" he asked as Partridge stepped inside the small unit, and he closed the door behind him.

Partridge detected little to no nervousness in the man's voice, and he took his time to reply. Before he answered, he had a good look around. Opening drawers, turning over some old cardboard boxes and checking the walls without ever saying a word, he concluded the _place_ was clean.

"Mr. Ceder," he then said, looking straight at his victim. "What do you do for a living?"

"I am retired, Sir," Ceder answered dutifully.

"Before that."

"I was a technician at the Palace of Justice, Sir."

"Before that."

"What do you mean, before that?"

"Before Libria came to exist, what did you do for a living?"

Ceder looked slightly confused, not sure where this was going, or why he was being asked these questions. He barely remembered what he had done before Libria. Why would it be of any significance anyway? He'd always been a good citizen; his vest was as white as it could be.

"I was just a boy when Libria was founded," he recalled. "Twelve, I think, turning thirteen. I joined Young Libria anno libriae 3, after my parents were killed."

"Who killed your parents?"

"The Tetragrammaton, Sir."

"And why was that?"

"They opposed the creation of Libria, Sir. My father was a so-called Freedom Activist, and my mother supported him. They were killed within a year of each other."

"And how about yourself?" Partridge wanted to know, watching him intently. This was going very well.

"I'm loyal to our great society, Cleric. I always have been. I would have joined Young Libria sooner, but my parents wouldn't let me."

"I see." Partridge turned his back on the man again, looking around the room once more. _'What are you doing?' _he asked himself. _'Even if your conclusions are right... what would you do with that information?' _But he knew it was too late. He was already here, and he was going to get what he had come for.

"Do these look familiar?" He tossed Nadine Ceder's photographs onto the small, plain dining table between them. He watched with fascination as a look of surprise and recognition hurried across James Ceder's features.

"These... these are photographs of my family!" he exclaimed, a look of utter disbelief written all over his face. He bent down a little and picked up the picture of the three boys. Partridge could almost watch the long-lost memories flailing around Ceder's head, and he made a dismissive gesture when he opened his mouth. He wasn't interested in hasty explanations or proclamations of loyalty to Libria right now. This wasn't about Ceder.

"What happened to your brothers?" he demanded as he loosened the gun inside his sleeve.

Ceder let out a bit of a breath as he thought, rummaging through the old flashes of images that he'd almost erased from his mind. "I am honestly not sure," he answered, shaking his head. "My mother fled with them to the mountains. I never heard from her again, or from Tommy and Er-..."

He didn't finish the sentence. Two pairs of emerald eyes locked across the room, and while one of them found his suspicion confirmed, the other one realised that perhaps the thought he'd just had wasn't entirely crazy.

"Hello Jamie."

"You... you're feeling!" he stammered as he shuffled backwards, pointing his finger at Partridge.

The echo of one lonely gunshot gradually faded away into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

**46**

Grace awoke to the steady beeping sound of a heart monitor.

Her body felt limp, numb and heavy, and her heartbeat, albeit thumping steadily at a mere 65 beats per minute, echoed in her head like roaring thunder. Nausea kicked in but a moment later. Groaning inwardly, she swallowed when she realized she was running low on oxygen. Her chest felt so painfully tight that she found it difficult to breathe.

'_Where in Father's name am I?'_

Letting her eyes wander around the sterile room, it took her a mere few seconds to figure out that she was at the Hall of Convalescence. She knew the place; she had been here more than once to have her injuries treated after the bomb attack. But she had no idea how, when and why she had ended up in here this time around.

Grace turned her head when the sliding doors opened with a soft, swishing sound. A stern-looking, middle-aged, physician entered, tapping the electronic clipboard that she was carrying a few times before looking at her patient. "How are you _feeling_?"

She frowned warily at the doctor's strong emphasis of that last word. This could be some sort of between-the-lines communication, or it could be a trap. Turning her head, she glanced at the woman's name tag. Dr. Ruth Heiler. The name meant nothing to her. The face didn't look familiar either. She therefore didn't answer at first, wondering if it was safe to say anything at all. Considering the fact that her mind was drawing a complete blank about how she'd gotten here, she deemed it wise to just keep her mouth shut for the time being. And so she simply shrugged.

"You will be released tomorrow morning," Dr. Heiler informed her as she proceeded to preparing an amber injection. Grace caught a glimpse of the doctor's watch, which told her it was just past 8pm.

Questions over questions were flailing around in Grace's head. _'Why am I here?' 'What's wrong with me?' 'How long was I out?' 'Are you a sense offender?' 'Does my father know I'm here?' _But she voiced none of them. Part of her just didn't care enough. She only winced ever so slightly as the needle pierced the sensitive skin of her neck.

"You really don't remember, do you?" Grace had started to drift off again, gripped by a sheer overwhelming fatigue, when the physician's voice startled her. Closing her eyes for a moment, she shook her head ever so softly, confused.

"Remember what?" she whispered, her voice heavy with an inexplicable exhaustion.

But Dr. Heiler only sighed. "Let's hope it stays that way," she murmured under her breath as she turned around and exited.

________________________________________________

**47**

**6 hours earlier**

"_Please state your rank, name and age for the record."_

"_Grammaton Cleric First Class Errol Partridge. I am 40 years old."_

"_Tell us about your relationship with the subject-in-questioning."_

"_We are partners. Before that, I was his mentor."_

"_So how long have you known Cleric John Preston?" _

"_Six years, Sir."_

"_And have you ever witnessed any kind of peculiar behavior in your partner? Any suspicious actions, or verbal expressions?"_

_Partridge let out a bit of a breath, resisting the urge to prop himself up on the witness stand. He'd been called to Preston's hearing on such short notice that he hadn't had a moment to prepare himself. He'd never even imagined he'd find himself inside the Hall of Questions one day. But five hours ago, Viviana Preston had been arrested and charged with sense offense. Three hours ago, she had confessed everything. While sense offence was nothing new, it had never occurred in the immediate environment of a Grammaton Cleric. The hearing had been organized and set up remarkably fast. As astonishing as it was, Partridge wasn't surprised. If there was a rogue Cleric, the Tetragrammaton better find him fast. But they were accusing the wrong man. _

"_Sir," he replied solemnly. "I can assure you that my partner is completely loyal to Father, and to our great society. The actions of his spouse are regrettable, and they are to be condemned and punished. However, John Preston has done no wrong. Your polygraph test has confirmed that." _

_The Head of Clergy's facial expression remained unreadable. "And how do you think is it that he came to miss it?"_

_Partridge hesitated but a second. He had asked himself the very same question. How could John not have noticed? It hadn't been an easy problem to be figured out. Preston had also failed to detect the growing doubt in him, his partner. Partridge knew for sure that it wasn't sympathy. Unlike himself, Preston's dose was as accurate as it could be. Denial was the only logical explanation. _

"_I suppose," he then answered, "you only ever find what you are looking for." _

_This time, the Head of Clergy frowned. "Please elaborate." _

"_What I'm saying is that one simply does not expect a sense offender among one's close family members. One would think that the threat of being discovered is far too great. But perhaps the very opposite is the case. Maybe the sheer danger serves as a better disguise than anything else." And to avoid Preston being accused of negligence on top of everything, he quickly added, "Also, we must not disregard the fact that Cleric Preston is one of our best enforcers and therefore has a very busy schedule. Viviana Preston was a working woman. I speak from experience when I say that two spouses spend less time together in one day than they spend in the company of their fellow citizens. Hence the question should not be 'How is it that Cleric Preston came to miss it?' but rather, 'How is it that nobody else noticed?' I reckon that my partner should be cleared of all charges."_

_There was a moment of silence before the Head of Clergy dismissed Partridge with a wave of his hand. Stepping down, the Cleric took his allocated front row seat. Nobody spoke as the Head of Clergy, the new Head of Intelligence, and three selected members of Father's Council retreated to a private chamber to make a decision. _

_Partridge briefly glanced around the courtroom. Robbie and Lisa Preston were seated across the room. They had been questioned before him, and each of them had given a testimony similar to his. _

_Partridge's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he regarded them intently for a moment. Suddenly he found himself wondering what had gone on in Grace's head when her mother had been killed. _

_Then his eyes met Preston's. And for some reason, Partridge found him hard to read this time. Not that there had usually ever been much left open to interpretation. Preston's mind often worked in ways that he did not understand. Some called it intuition, the gift to think like a sense offender without being one. But that had always been something different to what Partridge thought he saw now. He registered no obvious emotions, yet at the same time he did not exactly detect a complete absence of emotion. It seemed as though something was simmering under the surface, and he wondered if anyone else noticed. _

'_If this is what under-medication feels like,' Partridge thought, 'what must it be like to really feel? The onslaught would have to be unbearable. How would you be able to function?' Perhaps this was similar to Preston's 'intuition'. Beneath his black coat, he felt his skin crawl. He still had to figure out in which cat and mouse game he was apparently a player, still had to make a decision about his current… state. But it could wait. As far as he knew, nobody suspected anything yet. _

_Then the jury returned, and all those present rose. _

"_We have come to a decision," the Head of Clergy announced. He paused briefly to make sure every single person in the room was paying attention. "Due to the testimonies we have heard, and due to the complete lack of evidence against the accused, we hereby proclaim Cleric John Preston cleared of all charges. As by his own wish, he will oversee his spouse's sentence tomorrow morning at 9am. Further investigations will continue concerning Viviana Preston's co-workers at the Evidentiary Department. This hearing is now closed."_

_Partridge noticed how the strange, subtle constriction he'd felt in his chest was suddenly gone. _

________________________________________________

**48**

It was long past his bedtime, but Robbie Preston couldn't sleep. He lay still in the silent darkness of his room, listening to his own breath as it entered and exited his body, acutely aware of his own thumping heartbeat. It was the first time in his life that he realized he was, in fact, a human being, the first time ever that he noticed he was actually alive. Or wasn't he? He already wasn't so sure. He was calm, of course, feeling nothing, but his intellect was dangerously close to hyperventilating.

He was thinking about his mother. Where was she now? Was she cold? Was she frightened? Why he would ask himself these questions escaped his rational mind. He knew he shouldn't be wondering about her. He had never doubted her, but she had let them all down. Himself, Lisa, and John. She was a sense offender, a traitor, a stain on the white vest of their great society. But he was confused. All his life, he had been taught that emotions were the root of all evil, that they were the breeding ground for hatred, jealousy, deceit and aggression. He had never questioned his father's work, or the dogma of the Tetragrammaton. He was just a child, and he believed what he was taught, trusted in those assigned to take care of him. Father, and his mother and father. He never would have imagined one of them might be wrong.

But his mother's fate changed everything. Nothing made sense anymore. She had always been so serene, so patient, so… gentle. Perhaps it had been blind ignorance, but he'd attributed all this to Prozium. Retrospectively he saw that nobody who was on the dose could ever be like Viviana. There had been a sparkle in her eyes when she'd gotten up in the morning, one that he had never been able to pinpoint, as though there was something wonderful for which it was worth to get up. Little did he know that he was one third of this wonderful something. What he did know, however, was that no harm had ever been done. Nobody had been killed because of his mother's emotions. Nobody had been injured, tricked or deprived. She had been a good mother, despite being off the dose. _'Or maybe,' _a traitorous little voice suggested, _'because she was off the dose.'_

Robbie sat up in his bed. Quietly, he opened the drawer of his nightstand, taking out his PIU. It weighed heavily in his hand. There were three capsules left in it, and after a little while of staring at them, his eyes started to unfocus. In this darkness, the amber liquid looked grey, and this struck him as a rather powerful metaphor. All life sprung from the mother. Robbie knew that Prozium didn't literally make a person dead. But he couldn't help but wonder if maybe Viviana had been a little more alive than the rest of them by removing this veil of grey.

"What are you doing?"

He turned his head when he heard Lisa's tired whisper. She was lying on her side, the blanket up to her chin, looking at him.

"Robbie?" she asked again when he didn't answer right away.

He bit his lip for a moment, then sighed very softly. "Do you think… this is good for us? The Prozium?"

Lisa frowned, looking rather perplexed. "Of course it is. Father says so."

Robbie nodded. That was true. "I know, but…"

He broke off. But what? He couldn't explain it. There was a subtle reluctance in him that hadn't been there before, a tiny splinter of doubt that somehow stung like a wedge.

"I've always wondered how people lived before there was Prozium," he eventually said.

Lisa shrugged. "They were all killing each other."

"Mh…" Biting his lip again, he then shook his head. "You know, I don't think so."

"Yes they were," Lisa retorted.

"No, listen," Robbie insisted. "I know there were the wars. And the criminals. And the charlatans. But… the world was there long before Prozium was, you know? People were there for thousands and thousands of years before Libria was founded. And they lived. Somehow it must have worked."

"But people died!" Lisa kept at it.

"People _always _die," Robbie countered. "You can't stop them from dying. What I mean is, even when there was no Prozium, even when people were killing each other, there must have been enough good ones to beat the bad ones. 'cause the bad ones always want to murder everyone, burn everything and have everything for themselves. And if any one of them had ever achieved that, there would be no world left, you see?"

Lisa thought for a moment. This was a lot to take in. "But… Hitler…" she murmured.

"Hitler failed."

"No, he didn't."

"Yes, he did. For ten years, he killed a lot of people. But then someone stood up to him. And afterwards, the world was kind of okay for a hundred years."

This time, Lisa was silent.

"I mean, think of it," Robbie continued after a long pause. "It was never the people that start the wars. It was always the government. They decided our people have to go kill other people for some stupid reason. They never asked us if we wanted to, did they?"

"No… I guess not," Lisa haltingly agreed. She wasn't sure where this was going, didn't fully understand it all, but it seemed to make an awful lot of sense.

"So… you know, why should we listen to people who make us do wrong things? If they're wrong about one thing, maybe they're wrong about other things, too. Or maybe they aren't wrong. Maybe they know what's right and still tell us something different. And if they do that… don't you think we have to disagree?"

"You're confusing me," Lisa mumbled.

Robbie sighed. He was talking exactly the way the words came to his mind, in a stream of consciousness. He'd already forgotten half of what he'd actually said.

"Well… if I told you to kill someone, would you do it?"

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

"Because it's wrong."

"But I'm your older brother. You must listen to me, and I told you so."

"Yes, but it's wrong!"

"I know, but I told you so."

"But it's WRONG!" The next moment, Lisa covered her mouth with her hand. Had she really raised her voice?

"See, that's what I mean," Robbie whispered. "Father tells us what to do, and we just have to do it. Everyone says emotions are bad. But what if they're not?"

"But they are." Lisa's head was beginning to spin. This was all a little too much for a five-year-old.

"Maybe sometimes they are," Robbie admitted. "But not always. When everyone still had emotions, there were a lot of good people. Much more good people than bad people, or we would all be dead." He paused for a moment, thinking. "It's like… if I do something wrong, you don't get punished."

"Of course not," Lisa snorted softly. "It wasn't me who did something bad. They should punish you, and leave me be."

"Exactly," he breathed. He looked at his PIU again, and then at his little sister.

"Lisa," he asked, "do you trust me?"

________________________________________________

**49**

Partridge was standing amidst a kaleidoscope of light. He'd never seen anything like it. It was only the pale moonlight that streamed in through the high windows, so there was but a tinge to the diffuse rays as they touched the ground. But to him, it was pure EC-10. He would have laughed if he had the emotional capacity to do so. Instead, he realised yet again that he was a hairsbreadth away from opening his eyes. The Tetragrammaton could burn books and magazines; they could destroy recordings and films. They could send men like him to kill all those who refused to comply. But not even the Tetragrammaton had any power over such simple beauty as coloured beams.

He shook his head as he sat down on one of the broken benches. He'd told the gate guard this trip was enforcement related, but that was a blatant lie. The walls of his apartment had closed in on him without a warning, without any apparent reason. He'd just had to get out. He had driven through the Nethers for almost an hour, aimlessly, before he had ended up in this place. A Cathedral. A place of worship and comfort during the old days, as he had learned from approved textbooks such as 'Concerning Religion'. He had dosed less than four hours ago, but his amber calm was already wavering. It wasn't enough to allow him to feel, but it was more than what was necessary to nourish doubt and curiosity. He was _meant_ to wonder, to look temptation right in the eye.

'_Gabriel is waiting for me to falter.'_

Somehow the plan was obvious. Yet, what he couldn't determine was whether the Vice Council knew that he knew. Partridge suspected that Nadine Ceder's confession had been part of the whole agenda. However, he also assumed that DuPont would count on the fact that his best Cleric would come to certain conclusions. It just didn't make any sense. DuPont would be able to anticipate that Partridge knew that he knew he knew...

Shaking his head once more, Partridge didn't even bother thinking the convoluted thought to the end.

He wasn't willing to die. For nothing and no-one. There was no fear, he just didn't want to. It had taken him a long time to acknowledge that realisation, because at first it had seemed completely absurd. He was supposed to love Libria, to adore Father, and to consider it an honour to make the ultimate sacrifice. It seemed ironic to him now that the only way he could ever do any of that was to be a sense offender. Without passion, there could be no love, no loyalty. What he really did was follow a set of rules, an ideology that consisted of empty words and which had been bred into his very flesh and bone since he was a child. He had never questioned Father, just like he had never doubted anything his parents – well, foster parents, as it now seemed - had taught him. The concept was the same. Do not question what you are told. Why would your leaders lie to you?

'_For power,'_ he thought. _'For control. To cover up the mess they have made.'_

He had done further reading on David Ceder. The sources were few and in-between, but it had become clear to him that his biological father had had a vision for what was now Libria before Charles Goodman had sent his men to silence him. It might just have been the one smart move he had made as President of the former United States of America. That, and starting wars for oil in the Middle East. Except that this last war had quickly blown out of proportion in every horrible way and thus hadn't been quite as successful in terms of return of investment as previous endeavours.

'_So now what?' _

Partridge knew he really only had one choice if he wanted to live. He had to pretend nothing was wrong, and go about his daily business as usual. The problem was that his daily business was murdering dissidents. He didn't feel sorry for them; his Prozium levels weren't yet low enough for that. But even from a merely rational point of view, it was mind-boggling. Father wanted there to be peace. Yet the seemingly endless road to peace was paved with mayhem. Partridge even wondered if that road wasn't perhaps circular, a never-ending treadmill. Libria had been founded forty years ago, and the Resistance still wasn't dead. And contrary to Father's broadcasts, the cruelties of the old world had not been abolished. Instead, they had been handed over to certain individuals – to men like him - and were now called 'the law'. But Partridge saw no difference. Death was death, and blood spilling was blood spilling, regardless of whether it was 'justified'. It almost seemed to him that there was no such thing as good and evil, or right and wrong. Apparently it all depended on a few laws and a handful of men to determine which was which.

Partridge let his eyes wander. As his aimless gaze fell upon a cracked statue of the Madonna and child, Grace came to his mind. She had been taken to the Hall of Convalescence at around noon, which was now almost twelve hours ago. He'd visited briefly in the afternoon, to find out what had happened. He had been told that while she had studied at Freedom Reading Room, a capillary in her head had burst, leading to some inner bleeding that had eventually caused a physical breakdown. A late complication of the concussion from which she had suffered, apparently. He'd also been told she would be alright, and that she would be released very soon.

'_I wonder how she is.'_

Perhaps he was imagining things, but the closer he looked, the more it seemed as though the statue bore a striking resemblance to his deceased spouse, and to his daughter as a young child. He remembered the times when Grace had been an infant. They were blurry memories, but they were there. Before she had been old enough to dose, she had been a difficult and needy baby. She'd been restless, she'd cried a lot during the day, and the only way she would go to sleep in the evening was lying on her stomach, with his large hand flat on her back. Helen had found it to be completely wrong, and he himself had thought so, too. But he'd stood next to her crib night after night, waiting for her tiny breaths to become slow and regular.

The years had come and gone so fast. Time had flown past him, and every single day had seemed the same. At some point, they must all have melted into one, into an endless day that felt like an eternity and a mere moment at the very same time. He had existed, calm as the breath that travelled through his body day after day, steady like his never-ending heartbeat. He wasn't old yet, but he'd get there eventually. One day, his life would end. He had come from nothingness, he would have fulfilled his role in the great society, and he would go back to nothingness.

Partridge failed to pinpoint why exactly, but he did not like that thought very much.


End file.
